


Could End Up A Story

by girl_wonder



Category: DCU
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:45:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_wonder/pseuds/girl_wonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chloe meets Gotham by accident, on her way from one story to the next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could End Up A Story

So, there's this joke that used to be funny in the press corps of Metropolis. It's a really long joke that loses a lot when it's not being told from a seasoned pro to a fresh-out-of-college coffee gofer. Imagine it, ok? Two women, one with a hundred years of bitterness in her when she sips her coffee. The other is fresh meat, ready to be pulverized by the Metropolis news.

Here's the punchline: Sweetheart, you aren't _Lois Lane_. The joke's funny because Superman only saves Lois Lane every time she's in trouble. The rest of the press corps are playing the lottery every time they walk out and do something stupid.

People haven't stopped dying in Metropolis since Superman took up residence, and even with crap shoot odds, a lot of them still take on the big guys. Mafia bosses, politicians, cops. Lois took on a lot more before she married Luthor, but really, the joke got old a long time before that.

Ha, ha, right? You're not Lois Lane. This joke used to be comedy gold.

*****

"What is this, Perry?" Chloe shoved her hair behind her ear and wished that the office didn't work mostly through e-mail. She wanted something to crumple and throw at her boss's head.

"Relax, Sullivan. We're still publishing." Perry didn't look up, pen still clenched in his teeth. He was spitting out words around it. "I just want you as far away from here as you can get when we do."

Pushing the same chunk of hair behind her ear she said, "Gotham isn't that far."

"Yeah, but I have friends in Gotham," Perry said, taking the tooth-marked pen and circling something violently on the printout in front of him. "You're going to have a lot of dangerous people mad at you. And let's face it, Sullivan. You're not Lois Lane."

"Thanks, Perry." Chloe sat down and stole one of the butterscotch candies he kept on his desk. "How's the nicotine patch? "

"Fuck off, Sullivan. Go see Marsha about travel and the Society Editor," he snapped his fingers. "What's her name with the red hair."

Noisily crumpling the wrapper, Chloe offered, "Susan?"

"Yeah," Perry agreed. "It's a fluff piece, she'll give you the questions, get in there and stay off the radar for a bit."

Walking back into the pen, Chloe held up a hand when Clark started to ask. "Don't," she warned, and leaned over to hiss. "I'm doing a fluff piece because of you."

Clark went pink, red, pushed his glasses up his nose, and said, "I'm sorry," in a bashful way that made her forgive him already. It'd been the same blush and apology that had made her forgive him through high school, so she sighed theatrically and rolled her eyes.

"Fluff, Clark," she said again, already grabbing a notepad and heading towards the Life, Style, and Society offices. "I better see a machiatto on my desk when I get back!"

*****

Clark looked mournful as she shoved clothing in her duffel bag.

"How long will you be gone?" he asked again.

She put four pairs of underwear in the duffel and six pairs of socks. "A few days," she said vaguely because she knew it would piss him off. It would have pissed her off. She was angry at him, for some undefinable reason, couldn't stand to look at him.

Taking her bedside reading, the Dahli Lama's latest and a Harlequin romance novel, she pushed those along the sides of the bag. "What am I missing?" she asked herself.

"Your toothbrush and deodorant," Clark said, ducking when she glared at him.

"I wasn't talking to you," she said, reaching for her makeup case, just to be contrary.

Putting out his hands defensively, Clark said, "What did I do?"

Adopting the most whiney voice she could, she said, "'You're no Lois Lane, Chloe.' 'Oh, sorry, Chloe, it's just your boyfriend thinks that rescuing the crush of his life is more important than making sure that everyone knows that they're no Chloe Sullivan.'"

Making a face she backed off, angry at him, angry at herself for letting it bug her.

"Chloe, I," Clark stopped. He looked at her, and it was Clark Kent, fresh off the farm, his heart breaking behind his eyes for a girl he couldn't have.

"Yeah, I get it, she's so much more important, but you know it sucks that now I have to go interview a rich asshole," she sounded friendly, pulled the voice and smile out of storage, let herself be the girl who was ok with the love of _her_ life having someone else as the love of _his_.

"She _isn't_." Clark reached for her, and he could move faster than her without even trying, but he didn't, pulled her to him gently. "If Lex thought he could use you to get at Superman, he would. Lois just gets in more trouble than you."

She let him tug her down so that she was on his lap. On the bed, he said, "Doesn't that make you feel, uh, smarter than her?"

Chloe laughed, turned her face so that they were nearly mouth to mouth, already, almost, nearly kissing. She tilted her head down so their foreheads were touching. Sighed.

"Yeah."

"Good," he said, tugging her down with him so that they were laying on the bed together, her on his chest. "So, exactly how much time do you have until your plane leaves?"

"Clark!" She slapped his shoulder. The trouble with having a boyfriend who she'd always forgiven was that she had the sinking feeling she always _would_ forgive him even when she shouldn't.

*****

The fourteen steps leading up to Wayne manor from Chloe's rented Civic were made of marble. Whorls of gray spun through the white stone, and the house itself towered over her. The whole building had been rebuilt using marble and brick, and the renovators had used as many of the old plans as possible, she had heard.

Still, the way that the pillars towered twenty feet above her, reflecting little of the overcast sky back made Chloe wonder if the oh-so-kind original Waynes had intended their house to look so threatening.

Outside, the roses were in full bloom, reds and pinks creating a color spectrum of the most rare rose breeds known to man. The front door opened when she stepped on the fourteenth stair, wearing heels for the first time in years because the Style Editor threatened her life if she wore tennis shoes to Wayne manor.

*****

Chloe had already interviewed some of the world's most powerful men before she was twenty-five. She'd sat in a room and listened to men discuss the direction a war would take, how many child soldiers to send to the front line, the number of bombs that needed to be made that day. The interview with Bruce Wayne was an embarrassing mix of expected questions that led to expected answers which led to expected follow-up questions.

Bruce Wayne had been in the media spotlight since he was eight. She had checked.

He answered her in smooth double talk that sounded like it was coming directly from a boy band's press rep, only he was talking about himself. After interviewing a cult leader who was convinced that he was the Almighty, Chloe thought that she had met the most self-centered man on the planet.

Bruce Wayne was making her reconsider that opinion. If he mentioned his yacht one more time, she was pretty sure she'd have to use the self-defense she had learned in the class that Clark made her take and stab her pen through call-me-Bruce's eye.

"Of course, once I realized that the Gotham Museum of Art didn't have any room for both collections at the same time, there really wasn't any question. I would have just kept them here; I did want them for my own enjoyment. But that really wouldn't have been fair," Bruce paused and seemed to be waiting for her to agree.

Chloe smiled automatically, it felt plastic on her face and she covered, "Why did you ask that they make their first event a children's orphanage benefit?"

"Well, as you know, I've always been a huge supporter of Gotham's social services system. If I hadn't had money..."

The tape recorder was running and Chloe thought that if Perry ever sent her to do anything for her own good again, she might have to fight dirty. Listening to Bruce was like listening to the worst of the politicians, all slick, oily words and smooth transitions to subjects that they wanted to talk about. Those were usually the people who lied smoothly and automatically. The ones who didn't know how to do anything but lie, because they believed it was the truth when they were talking to her.

Something clicked, the way he was speaking about himself, because it _was_ like that, and not just an entertaining metaphor she used to get her through the next question. She'd missed it because she didn't expect it, she hadn't expected to find such a good liar in a fluff piece. In any other story, she would have thrown him to the mat, taken his story apart piece by piece and examined it. Twisted his words until they said something closer to the truth, taken little baby steps towards reality with casual questions stuck between harsh, revealing ones.

But, this was a fluff piece. Fluff had to fit in between columns on hair care and Grandma's Recipe for whatever sounded enough all-American that it would tone down the sentiments of the front page.

Given two seconds, she could probably fasten together a chain of simple, leading, benign-sounding questions that would lead to more of a truth than Bruce Wayne built a public art museum because he's a nice guy. Whatever was deeper than that would need research, would need more than the folio of old articles Susan had handed her with a glare.

One second in, a side door opened, this time not by the English butler, and someone with more experience in not breaking her ankles wearing high heels walked in. The snap of heels on hardwood made both Chloe and Bruce look up.

The woman was wearing jeans that looked like they were more expensive than Chloe's car and high heels that even Chloe recognized as Via Spiga. She was thin, slender without looking emaciated; her hair curled down her back, bouncing a little with each step.

"I used your credit card," she said, waving the shopping bags.

There was something not real in his smile, like what she was saying was something more than that he was down a few thousand dollars. He quirked his lips, in the smile that had graced too many newspapers. "Is that all?" he asked.

"Yeah." She was smiling like she'd just won something from him, and leaned down to press a kiss onto his lips. It was brief contact, and they both had their lips closed. It was like a handshake, and Chloe almost convinced herself that it was just another sugar daddy and his gold-digging girlfriend.

Except, the way that they both looked at each other was hungry and wanting. They looked like they wanted to consume each other and this was all a facade for her benefit. That interested her.

Bruce didn't do anything possessive, the way that Chloe had seen so many other men do when they wanted their girlfriends grateful for their generosity. Still, one of his fingers pressed lightly on her wrist, casually, like their perfunctory kiss was more than a new way of saying, "Hello."

******

Slam Bradley's apartment was a strange eclectic mix of '70s leftovers and the classic bachelor pad. When he'd picked her up from the airport, she'd assumed that he was someone hired by Perry to protect her when the story broke. But, after the initial tour ("Bathroom. Kitchen. Television. Your room. My room.") Slam had shown a distinct disinterest in her.

He came in at odd hours, left at even odder ones - not that Chloe exactly understood the meaning of nine to five herself. The really weird thing was how Slam seemed to actually forget that she was staying with him. Slam left files open on his table and Chloe poked through them, inevitably nosy reporter to the end. Manila folders held pictures of lovers, pictures of arguments, notes scribbled onto napkins.

People's whole lives were filled out in pages and pictures. It was a little slice of heaven, seeing all the reveled secrets; it was the ultimate guilty pleasure. Ten times better than a romance novel.

Slam's place didn't focus much on lighting, one brown shaded overhead lamp in the kitchen, a flickering bedside lamp in her room. The television lit the living room, shadowing the ugly orange couch when she flipped channels the evening after interviewing Bruce. The couch smelled like it hadn't been washed since Slam had bought the monstrosity, or since before Slam took it out of a dump heap. Chloe had sat on worse. She'd slept on worse.

She could deal with it for a few more days if it meant a juicy story, something she could sink her teeth into that didn't seem like it was just recycled high school drama. Stories about Lex always felt like the guilty gossip articles she'd write for the Torch and never publish.

Eating Chinese, she didn't feel guilty at all when she dropped a piece of mushu pork onto the arm and couldn't get the stain out. When she heard Slam come in, she called out, "There's some Chinese in the kitchen."

Even though he was pretty bad security, he was a Gotham local. He'd know the ins and outs of the city, and having him on her side meant less legwork. Before she knew about the Wayne story, she hadn't really needed him. Now she did; she needed him to be on her side. So, she grinned at his mumbled, "Thank you." From the kitchen, the sound of an opening fridge and two beer bottles clanging was familiar and he handed her one before heaving himself onto the couch next to her.

He smelled like sweat and lacked the distinct scent of cologne that Bruce had worn with assurance. The game was on, Met Sharks up against the Green Bay Packers. The Sharks were kicking ass, taking names in a way that Chloe only knew was true because her fourth college boyfriend had been a Sharks fanatic.

During half-time, he'd started on his second beer and they'd made it to the fortune cookies. Hers told her that sunny days were around the corner. He didn't share his, tucked it facedown under his empty beer bottle.

"Do you think that the Sharks have a chance this year?" Chloe asked.

"Don't watch football often," Slam said. He took a swallow of beer and leaned forward onto his elbows. Slam wore his white suit shirt with the sleeves perpetually rolled up and reminded her of Perry that way, faint traces of her boss teasing her in the way he walked, the way he moved.

"Neither do I," Chloe knew that she didn't need a casual transition with Slam, he was the type who seemed like he'd see subtle as a way to get around honest. After years of Metropolis press conferences, she understood the mentality.

Instead, she tried up front. "Bruce Wayne is a good liar, isn't he?"

Slam grunted. He said, "Looking for a story already? Perry said you were obsessed with the job. He called you a piece of work."

It was bait he was holding out on a hook and the questions tumbled to the front of her mind, the tip of her tongue automatically. _How do you know Perry? Do you talk to him regularly? Does he keep you on the payroll? Why? Why not? Were you ever in Metropolis? Why? Why'd you leave? Was Perry ever here? Why hasn't he ever published in a Gotham paper? What's your relationship to my boss?_

But it was the same trick she used when she wanted something: wave something shiny, and get people to focus on something else, so they were distracted.

"Not as much as Bruce Wayne is," Chloe said, watched Slam shrug his huge, tired shoulders.

"Rich people lie, that's not really interesting." He swallowed the last of his beer, picked up the other empty and took them into the kitchen. The fortune under his beer clung to the bottom briefly before fluttering onto the floor.

Chloe didn't hesitate. _You are in a den of thieves, be careful with what is yours._ the fortune said in ten point Arial font.

"I'm going to stay in town a few more days," Chloe said.

"Sure," Slam was silhouetted by the kitchen light and looked intransient in the frightening way that everyone else seemed to look. Clark was the only real person in her life a lot of days, and the irony of that hit her every day.

****

The thing about Gotham papers was that they were either less honest than Metropolis papers or Bruce Wayne was really just that good of a guy. Chloe had yet to meet a billionaire who wasn't corrupt from clinging hard to his money, so she tended to believe that any honest journalists had headed for the waters of Metropolis. At least the death rate of Metropolis was calculable by how much time Superman spent in the city and how loudly you could scream his name. In Gotham you had to risk escaped lunatics _and_ caped crusaders.

After five hours of library time, skimming articles about the ups and downs of Bruce Wayne's love life, she'd found out a couple interesting facts: the first was that Bruce wasn't just the owner of Wayne Industries. He was the owner and CEO, he ran the company and the veiled references throughout the articles indicated that he ran it well. The second was that when Wayne donated quiet money, he didn't donate it to absurd, photogenic causes. Mostly he donated to East End charities. Orphanages, half-way houses, drug rehabilitation centers, free clinics, and organizations that worked to stop youth from joining gangs.

For someone who wasn't Catholic, she found through some tenacious digging, that he had donated a lot of money recently to Our Lady of Endless Sorrows convent. A bit more research led to evidence that ten years ago, he'd donated a similar amount.

The thing about convents, and Chloe had taken her history lessons to heart, was that they used to be brothels for priests. Although they had generally stopped that practice, there was still the Catholic Church, not a clean organization by any means. It wouldn't be the first time dirty money had been cleaned in God's coffers.

"Get thee to a nunnery, Sullivan," Chloe said, grabbing her bag.

*****

Our Lady of Endless Sorrows was a first-generation Gotham building, one of the few historical buildings left. Chloe read the plaque as she waited.

Behind her, someone coughed. "It was one of the only buildings that survived the earthquake nearly intact. One of the north walls fell, but all of the original stones were still there, so we rebuilt." The nun smiled, a warm thing, free of worry. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a loose bun, making her look more like kindergarten teacher and less like a servant of God. "I'm Sister Magdalene." She extended her hand, short nails, no manicure, but when Chloe shook it, the skin was soft from lotion. Unscented.

"Chloe Sullivan, the Daily Planet."

Following the sister, Chloe asked, "So, how did you find the money to rebuild?"

"Ah, well, Rome gave us a little money directly and the people of Gotham have always been generous to us," Sister Magdalene smiled, and nodded Chloe out to the garden smoothly.

"I guess that some members of the community have been _very_ generous." The path was stone, the same color as the building, deep grays fading into the green grass, a circle of roses around the stone fountain.

"Ah, yes. Well, some of those souls who were dedicated to rebuilding Gotham were more charitable than others." Sister Magdalene said, straightening her habit before sitting.

Chloe couldn't count the number of times she was going to hell for grilling a nun. In her defense, it wasn't her first nun, or even the first time she'd asked uncomfortable questions of a holy person. In for an ear of corn, in for a field. "Did Bruce Wayne give a large donation?"

"The Waynes have a history of giving support to our order." Sister Magedalene smiled, but it was light, the smile of someone above the pettiness of day-to-day living.

"I couldn't find any history of Bruce giving to you. At least not until recently," Chloe smiled, baby steps, let them revise and revise and revise their lies, like slicing off clothing until all that was left was the truth, naked and flawed. Chloe had stopped believing the truth was beautiful a long time ago.

"Bruce gives extensively in the East End. We haven't needed his support until recently." Another sister walked by them, smiling and nodding at Sister Magdalene.

Chloe tilted her head, quirking an eyebrow. "It looks like all of the rebuilding has been done for a while."

"That doesn't take away from the financial burden," Sister Magdalene said. "And until now Bruce didn't realize what kind of a strain we were under."

"What strain?" Chloe watched the way that Sister Magdalene didn't seem to lose her cool, got colder and more distant. Finding the pressure point was an art form that Chloe had mastered years ago with Kwan, her lab rat.

"The rebuilding and the recovery clinic. They didn't have these problems ten years ago," Sister Magdalene said.

"Why not?" Chloe prodded, a quick question that seemed to irritate Sister Magdalene more than anything she'd said so far. The peace was falling away from Sister Magdalene quickly, little lines of tension around her mouth and eyes.

"Well, really, who wants to look after Gotham street whores and addicts? Why should it be their problem?" The questions burst forth with such bitterness that Sister Magdalene bowed her head, tried to recover. They had the tone of someone who'd fought too long and won a Phyrric victory to get what she wanted, someone who was worn out with it.

"The earthquake cut funding to the clinic?" Soft question, light touch of sympathy.

"All of it. And no one knew." Magdalene looked over Chloe's shoulder, towards the sun, a trick to hide the lines of a tight angry mouth and squinted eyes as the light's fault; Chloe used to look out at the Kansas skyline and think, _someday it won't matter_.

She was too young to be the mother superior, and maybe if the questions had been softballs all the way through, she would have handled them gracefully. But, just looking at her, Chloe knew why she was the face of the convent. Usually nuns were nothing to write home about, but Sister Magdalene was beautiful, even without makeup she was gorgeous.

The coldness was something she must have tended, though, something she had nurtured as peace of spirit to cover hurts. Underneath, Chloe saw the anger, the passion. It was familiar.

Everything bitter was familiar to Chloe now.

"Well, someone must have told Bruce," Chloe said.

"I'm sure someone did. I just can't tell you who," Sister Magdalene stood and Chloe did too, automatically. A bell began tolling and Sister Magdalene said, "Well, I'm sorry, that's the bell for lunch."

"You know, ten years ago, he donated money, too," Chloe said.

Sister Magdalene was frozen, smile completely gone. "That was before I came to the convent," she said, slowly. "I really wouldn't know about it."

"Nice roses," Chloe commented. It was cheating, she knew, didn't care.

"It's rare. Called, 'Gotham Hope'." Sister Magdalene seemed slow to recover her equilibrium, words forced out in half-phrases. "We received some cuttings from the original plants a few years ago." She fingered one of them on the way out.

"They looked better at Wayne manor," Chloe commented, grinning even as Sister Magdalene ushered her outside, a sharp look instead of a goodbye.

After the door was bolted behind her, Chloe grinned. Perry was going to kill her. Clark would probably kill her. But, really, when there were two crazy, omnipotent billionaires out there, what was a girl to do?

*****

If the money that was being funneled into the church was really going to a clinic, then someone who had connections had to be running the clinic. And if Gotham's East End was anything like Metropolis's slums, there would be someone out there who got a little extra for making sure that no one broke in, stole supplies, or generally made life hellish for nuns.

Chloe took her humor where she could make it.

Gotham city records were surprisingly thorough on East End charities. Chloe found that out at the same time that she found out that the night clerk was nineteen, on his way to MetU, and willing to be bribed with coffee and a smile.

"Thanks so much," Chloe said, walking him back to the door of the records room. Clark could shut it; she could do subtle. "I'll put them back right where they were."

Four hours later and there still wasn't any obvious connection between the charities and Wayne, or even the charities themselves. There were subtle little hints that there should be, the way that certain ones failed and others took off immediately. And then she found it.

Doctor Leslie Thompkins threaded her way through the East End clinics and social service work like a ghost, let her name be put everywhere it would be useful, it looked like. Going back, it dated to when she must have been in medical school, no medical title, just her name.

There wasn't any Internet in Slam's apartment, Chloe knew because she'd checked multiple times. Which meant an Internet café to look up Thompkins professional record. At least there would be coffee there and not the filtered cow dung that Slam pretended was coffee before he left for work every morning.

Putting the copies of the important papers in her bag, she hefted up the first box, pushed it back onto the metal shelf. The second box was lighter and she glanced up to the sunroof window when she thought she saw movement. Nothing was there and she shrugged it off as Clark buzzing by to make sure she wasn't getting herself into trouble. Not that he'd really be able to stop her if she was.

But it made him feel better if he could cross his arms and glare at her while she did it, it made him feel like he was doing something useful. Most of the time, it felt reassuring to have him at her back, even when he was being geeky Clark instead of Superman.

She pushed the last box onto the shelf and glanced up again, stopping and staring when she realized that the movement was there and it wasn't Clark's garish primary color fetish costume flying by so quickly he hoped she'd miss him.

Someone was on the roof, wearing a dark gray or black, something she wasn't supposed to be able to see. She wouldn't have seen it at all if she wasn't used to Clark's habit of stalking her from above.

"Superman?" she called out, feeling ridiculous. Easiest lesson she'd ever learned, though. Superman wasn't Clark and the only people she'd hurt by using Clark's name would be Martha, Clark, and herself. She was tired of leaving herself open to being hurt by Clark, at least this way she was guarding herself against the physical harm of kidnapping, which Clark could rescue her from. The emotional problems were history, blacked out pages of _ouch_ and _thank God that's over_.

Superman's face didn't appear in the window though, and there wasn't any movement, a careful lack of movement. It wasn't a cat, then, or something that could be explained away easily. The problem with being in today's world, Chloe thought, was that the ghosts under the bed tended to be supervillains who didn't hide under the bed, but in warehouses or evil lairs.

Everyone had a hard time dispelling fears of supervillains in the dark shadows when it was a coin toss as to whether that noise was something your head made up or something that was going to hold a gun to your temple and demand you drop the article on illegal crocodile importing.

Not that that had ever happened to Chloe. Well, no more than once with the crocodile thing.

The desk kid said there was an internet café a few blocks down the street. "There isn't going to be any parking," he said. "You'll probably have to leave your car here."

The walk was quick and the daylight hadn't faded all the way yet, even as streetlamps flipped on, white, yellow, and broken bulbs patching together a path of light for her to follow.

Gotham sidewalks were filthy, dirt and gum pounded in to create a molted spectrum of eww and more eww. The cracks of the sidewalk made her step over them carefully, forget breaking her mother's back, she was afraid of breaking her own.

The café reminded her of the Talon immediately, but only in the way that the smell of café coffee and the high whine of an espresso machine would always remind her of the golden years in high school. Well the golden _year_, when she and Lana had been friends, and Clark had looked over at her one day and really seen her.

She waited for the day that her whole life wouldn't be consumed by Smallville.

After a search that took her further than she had expected, it turned out that Leslie Thompkins wasn't new to Bruce Wayne. They went back almost as far as her work in charity. The picture of Bruce holding her hand, walking away from his parent's bodies was more heartbreaking than cliched. The Wayne heir had the carriage of John Kennedy Jr. even then, but it was the heartbreak in his eyes, the way that he clung to Leslie Thompkins's hand that reminded Chloe of the idolized Lana Lang picture.

Chloe kept her jaw set, because sure he'd once been that kid who looked half-broken being led away from his parent's bodies, but now he was someone else. No one was the same person they were at eight.

After that, it looked like Leslie had worked uptown at a practice that made more money than Chloe even wished she had. A few years in, though, she quit. Started working at an East End practice, her current address was mapquested to a street with more break-ins than anywhere else in the city. Chloe looked at the helpfully colored crime map and back at the address.

She'd pulled out her notepad, the habit of keeping hard copies of everything too ingrained after the fourth time her computer files had been 'corrupted.' Jotted down, in quick half-longhand, "Dr. Leslie Thompkins -- left good practice to take money from those feeling charitable? Address in East End. Deep in crime area. Boss?"

According to her records, Doctor Thompkins did "pro bono" work, a veiled hint that for every paying customer there were two or three hookers and drug addicts she rescued.

The hooker-druggie connection, though, would be easy to check into, hookers were nothing if not eager when there was money on the table. In Metropolis, Chloe would have known where to look for the most desperate girls, the ones that were so hungry, such emotional vacuums that even fearing their pimps was worth it because it meant that they felt something.

They were always willing to tell her whatever she wanted, as long as she listened to them. Chloe was still surprised at the amount of intimate information that basic questions could get her, surprised that people wanted someone to listen to them so much that they let her strip them of their stories, of their words and publish them in a newspaper.

Still, she had no idea where to start, which would mean that she would have to ask someone, probably Slam, to help her find a prostitute. Wouldn't that be a _fun_ conversation.

Packing up, she tossed her empty cup into the trash and headed out. When she heard someone following her, she wasn't surprised. She was pissed because she should have known it sooner, but all surprise had gotten her in the past was a bloody nose and Lois scooping her story.

Chloe knew the sound of her own pace intimately, the sound of her rubber soled, oh-so-comfortable, worn in, work shoes was ingrained because whenever she was on a job she had to be aware of someone else's paces. She reached into her jacket pocket and fingered her mace spray.

She could see the parking lot, and knew that she didn't have much time -- the other person was still walking casually, but _close_. Her thought as she turned around and pressed down on the spray was that Batman better not have issues with her screaming for Superman in his city, and for that matter, Clark better not have his headphones on or he was never getting nookie again, ever.

She sprayed and it took a second for her to realize that it wasn't not doing anything, no expected pained scream, no keeling over. The guy was a pro, wearing a mask and goggles, so she was caught off guard when he lunged at her, cutting off her knee jerk scream, "SUPER-"

Her face was against the brick wall, hot and the nerves were screaming where her arm was twisted back painfully. "Be quiet," the guy said into her ear. "Now, I'm going to tie up your hands and we're going to take a ride back to Met-"

The hand on her arm jerked back, still holding her elbow, but she twisted out and kicked him hard in the groin, expecting to see Superman holding him, all red and blue and hero. It was not Superman, though, holding the guy a few inches above the ground, it was Slam Bradley, bare forearm wrapped tight around the guy's neck, locking one of the guy's arms above his head.

Slam's gray hair glinted white under the streetlight, and he said, "Chloe, get in the car."

His Chevrolet was idling, parked half of the curb and Chloe crossed her arms, said, "Why?"

"You like questioning people. We're going to _question_ him." Slam pushed the guy forward, until he was up against the wall, trying to buck Slam off even as Slam yanked both arms back and handcuffed him. The guy still fought, using his leg to try to kick at Slam's ankle, and Slam gripped the guy's hair, pulled his head back from the wall only to smash his face back into it.

Chloe held open the backseat door, noting that the doors from the backseat out didn't have handles, watched Slam strap the guy in efficiently. Even with the smear of blood on his white shirt, Slam still looked the same: worn out, worn down by life and his crappy job.

"Perry had you watching me?" Chloe had her arms crossed, angry.

Shrugging, Slam reached into his pocket to pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth lit it and offered it to her silently. She took it, watched him light another.

"How long have you been tailing me?" She didn't smoke, but it felt good to have something in her hands.

"You haven't been alone since you got here." Slam opened the passenger door. "Get in, Sullivan. I'll take you to see the good doctor."

Chloe sunk down into the seat, buckling herself in automatically. She glanced over and tugged on her door handle, opened and shut it quickly checking as Slam backed the car out and began driving. The first time that she'd been to see a criminal mastermind, she was nervous. As the years had worn on, she'd become blase about the idea of them, because in the end it was just one more person who wielded power. Anyway, she knew that if Slam Bradley trusted Doctor Thompkins, the woman couldn't be that bad.

Chloe trusted Perry and if Perry trusted Slam, she would, too.

"You like Doctor Thompkins?" Chloe asked.

Flicking what was left of his cigarette out the window, Slam nodded. "She's a good person. We don't get a lot of her kind in the East End."

"You want me to interview her because she's nice?" Chloe couldn't help the disbelief.

Slam laughed. "No, I want _you_ to believe she's nice. Also, you need some patching up." He reached over to touch her cheek and pulled back his finger to reveal blood.

Chloe sighed: Clark would kill her.

*****

Doctor Leslie Thompkins had a small parking lot, only one car in it when Slam pulled in and opened his door. He led Chloe to the door of the office, knocking once, but his back was to the door and his attention was on the car, where goggle-guy was still locked in.

A gray haired woman looked out of the narrow window next to the door, pursed her lips and flipped the deadbolt. "Slam Bradley," she said, holding open the door.

"Doc. Good to see you," he smiled and it was brief, but kind the way that only grim men could be.

Interested at the by-play, all that wasn't being said, Chloe stood back still, hands in her pockets.

"I've got a curious reporter here to ask questions about your charity work," Slam said, nodding at Chloe.

"Chloe Sullivan, Daily Planet," Chloe said, hand extended automatically.

Smiling, small wrinkles clear in the corner of her lips, Doctor Thompkins said, "Doctor Leslie Thompkins, East End. Let's take a look at those cuts. Slam, are you coming in?"

Her question was light, but she glanced out to Slam's car, raising her eyebrow.

"I've got some business to take care of," Slam started back to his car.

"You are a better person than that," Doctor Thompkins warned. "Don't let yourself get too far."

"Doc," Slam said, pausing and looking at her for a bit. "I'm not getting into heaven, even yours."

"Slam." The warning was so palpable, Chloe had to admire the woman.

"I won't do anything," Slam said, waved again, and headed to his car.

Turning to look at Chloe, Doctor Thompkins smiled, this time warmly and full. "Let's look at that cheek."

"So you've been in the East End a long time?" Chloe let herself be led to an exam room in the back, glancing into one of the open ones as they passed it, saw a girl in fishnets and vinyl asleep on a cot.

"About twenty years, give or take some," Doctor Thompkins said. When Chloe sat on the exam table, Doctor Thompkins pulled on rubber gloves and pulled out antiseptic, cleaning Chloe's wounds efficiently.

"You seem to do a lot of... 'charity' work," Chloe said, wincing away from the sting.

"Hold still." Doctor Thompkins held Chloe's chin. "I'll talk, young lady, if you stop moving. I do a lot of work here, but most of the time, it helps organizations if they have my name somewhere. I'm not high profile, but Gotham's wealthy trust me."

Doctor Thompkins paused, said, "These aren't deep enough for stitches. You're lucky. I see too many girls in here who need them, and don't have anywhere else to go." Doctor Thompkins started taping the gauze to Chloe's face. "I imagine you're very jaded with the world, Miss Sullivan. I think that that's rather sad for a girl your age."

"You weren't at my age?" Chloe asked, smiled when Doctor Thompkins glared at her.

"At your age, I was also just finishing medical school, and no. When Tom and Martha died, I realized that the world was not the place I wanted it to be. I can help make it that place here."

It was always the earnest ones that got her, made Chloe believe that the world could be a good place. She really needed to stop with the Mother Theresa worship, but it was hard when Leslie Thompkins seemed to take her job seriously.

"Done," Doctor Thompkins announced. "Here, let me take a look at your arm."

She was testing the rotation of Chloe's shoulder when there was a soft noise in the other room. Someone stumbled towards the doorway and Doctor Thompkins looked up, said, "Chloe. Please come with me."

The light in what looked like Doctor Thompkins' personal office was on and a woman was slumped over in the client chair, long, dark hair obeying gravity to spill sideways. The hair tickled at Chloe's memory, made her pause.

The costume wasn't familiar to Chloe -- she didn't even try to keep up with Gotham heroes -- but the hair was too familiar for Chloe to not know whom it belonged to.

"Chloe," Doctor Thompkins said again, with a gentle touch to her back guiding her towards the other exam room.

At the door, Doctor Thompson said softly, "Susan," the girl on the cot sat up immediately, blinking quickly. "I'd like you to meet Chloe Sullivan. I have to take care of someone else for a minute, but I'm sure you can entertain yourselves."

"Sure, Doc." Susan yawned wide, and the smear of black eyeliner left no way for Chloe to mistake who she was when she got out on the street. "Is, uh, 'someone else' going to be ok?"

Doctor Thompkins raised her eyebrow expressively. "They always are."

Standing, Susan closed the door behind Doctor Thompkins, glanced at Chloe, and said, "I'm Susan. Doc Thompkins doesn't usually let girls stay here overnight, but, I've got a, uh, you know, thing."

Lifting her shirt, Susan exposed a long bandage, stretching from beneath her breast to her navel. "That looks bad," Chloe said. "How did you get it?"

Susan pulled her shirt back down, sat on the rolling stool that was ubiquitous in Doctor's offices everywhere. "A trick got a little too rough." She shrugged. "It's not the worst that could happen."

Chloe knew intimately what the worst that could happen to a hooker was. Even in black and white, the gutting of an informant wasn't any less gruesome. "I bet you get a lot of sick johns in the East End," Chloe fished.

"Oh, yeah," Susan said. "We get some real sickos. There was this one guy that went around killing girls with a razor blade until, you know, Catwoman stopped him. Doc Thompkins used to keep the clinic open all the time so we could go somewhere if something happened."

"Catwoman - is that, 'someone'?" Chloe asked. She couldn't help it, knew that it was dangerous to be someone who took care of heroes, but it was also brave in a way that pulling on a mask and saving the world couldn't be.

Frowning, Susan said, flat, "Why." Which was a much better answer than 'yes' and a much more truthful answer than 'no.'

"Doctor Thompkins sounds like a really good person," Chloe said, instead. The way that Susan talked made it clear that whatever else was going on in the East End, Doctor Thompkins had fans. Still, even adoration had to be earned. Hookers didn't trust social servants lightly, too used to people who paid -- or people who wanted to get around paying -- for their affection.

"Bruce Wayne ever come down here?" Chloe asked, but at this point, she knew she was reaching for an intransient story that wasn't there. Maybe Gotham's crown prince really was nothing like Metropolis's but in net worth.

Susan laughed like she was drowning. "Bruce Wayne? Down here? God, half the girls I know would do him for free." She gasped air and burst out again. "No, no, no one like that."

Chloe nodded, a little bored with the waiting.

"We get Lex Luthor sometimes, though." Chloe snapped her attention to Susan. Lex was her buzzword, her own shiny object, but it was impossible for her to stay away from him.

"Really?" Chloe asked.

"Yeah, well, my roommate says he used to be down here all the time, but that someone had scared him off until now." Susan looked up from her nails, seemed to know she had Chloe hooked. "Hollie says that when he used to come down, he'd hang out with some drug dealers for a few weeks and then leave for a while. Then, she says, he took one of Mikey's girls with him when he left."

Susan pushed herself back and forth on the stool. "Her sister, this dominatrix or something, went after her and did something that made him stay out of the East End. I dunno if it's true or not, but Holl says that they both disappeared."

"When?" When meant hours of research, but it also meant a date and facts. It meant that if Lex killed a hooker, well, Chloe knew she was reaching with that one anyway.

"Holl said it was when she started working, so ten years ago? But you know, most of her stories are all, 'Maggie, Selina, and me did this', so who knows."

"It's strange that Lex would come back after all these years," Chloe said, even though it wasn't strange really. He probably thought that whatever he'd done had been forgotten. Still, he hadn't come back for the quality cocaine, so if he was here, he was selling instead of buying.

"Well, he hasn't really. I mean," Susan jiggled her leg. "He's building something over in the factory town near the waterfront. And they're already hiring scabs, but none of the unions care because they don't want their people doing that work anyway. Also, I dunno, but I think Luthor's paying them off."

"Lex is paying off the unions?" Chloe wanted more, even though it looked like that was all that the girl knew.

A sharp knock interrupted her next question. Slam opened the door, and nodded at Chloe. "You ready?" he asked.

"Sure. Nice to meet you, Susan," Chloe said. She brushed past Slam, waited for him as he stared at Susan.

"Susan?" He asked, amused.

"Shut up, Slam." Susan pulled her knees to her chest, skin shining white under the stretched fishnets. Chloe glanced away to the bowl of roses on the receptionist's desk, a familiar red.

Nodding at Susan, Slam left the door open behind himself and walked Chloe out to his car. She felt the imprint of an expected hand on her back, even though Slam didn't touch her. The car was empty when she climbed into it, waiting until Slam had pulled out before she began questioning.

"Where's goggles-guy?"

Flipping a turn signal, Slam said, "We're going to see him. I figured you'd want to hear his story yourself."

"You already got it?" Chloe asked, Slam's knuckles were scratched and red. He hadn't changed his shirt, the blood dried brown and sweat stained under his arms.

"I've heard what he told me," Slam said.

East End Gotham was busy, cars driving slowly by hookers, men walking in and out of buildings. Someone was smoking a joint under a neon red sign that advertised women fucking each other on stage.

Stopping at a streetlight, Chloe watched a transvestite walk across the street, all long strides and hot pink miniskirt. The taste of poverty and desperate money made her skin warm with the potential stories. Here was someone who dressed like a girl for the mayor on weekends. Here was someone who sold drugs to the son of a congressman. Here was someone who sold out his bosses to the cops for immunity. The abuse of power, the abuse of people was in every movement, every smile.

Here was where the most beaten down of Gotham's citizens made their lives in the holes of reality that living outside the nine-to-five world created.

Slam pulled up outside of a storage unit, shadowed and dark except for a lightpost every other unit. He took out keys and unlocked the door, rolling it up loudly. He gestured Chloe in and closed it behind him, flipping a switch to light the nearly empty room. In the middle, tied to a chair, was goggles-guy, sans goggles.

Without his costume, he looked like just another gang member, granted one who had been beaten up recently. He looked tired out and rolled his eyes when Slam nudged his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah, tell her, got it. Slam, come on, gimme a cigarette and we'll sing kumbaya, death to Luthor, all right?"

Taking out his crushed packet of cigarettes, Slam lit one between his lips and let the guy inhale once, twice, before taking it out and saying, "Talk to the nice lady, Jackson."

"How do you two know each other?" Chloe asked. It was habit, too often only getting a partial story meant only getting a partial truth.

"Slam used to work East End security for some of the richie riches," Jackson said. "Then he went all independent contractor on us and the rest of us finally started getting our own chances with the whole security gigs."

"Is that what you were?" Chloe asked.

Slam let the guy have one more drag. "Kind of. I mean, I'm not big time, but I was hired to keep an eye on Luthor's interests in the East End, keep people from getting too curious. You were sniffing around." The guy shrugged.

"You thought I was looking into Luthor?" Chloe half-laughed.

"Well, I mean, you've got it out for the guy and you were going to talk to the nuns and all that. Slam, man, c'mon, the hands."

Slam glared, and Jackson subsided. "I wouldn't have tried anything. Honestly, this gig isn't that great anyway."

"Why not?" Chloe jotted down, 'what do the nuns have to do with Luthor?'

"Well, Luthor didn't give no specific instructions, you know? And he doesn't want anyone to know what he's doing at the warehouse, right? So, I don't get to ask and the workers are too afraid to tell, I guess. It's kind of shady if you ask me," Jackson said. The irony of his chosen profession was lost on him. Dipping his head to the side he wiped his nose on his shoulder and glared at Slam until Slam gave him another drag of his cigarette.

Nearly at the filter, Slam finished it off and lit a new one. "What do you think that Luthor's doing?" Slam asked, low gravel voice, eyes still obscured by shadows from the overhead light.

"Dunno, weapons? Something he doesn't want his precious Metropolis to know about, you know?" Shaking his head, Jackson said, "Everyone comes to Gotham to do their dirty work, like we're supposed to be the shit capital of the shit business."

Chloe reached out and Slam handed her the cigarette. "Why weapons?"

"Look. Who's Luthor want to hurt? Superman. Where does Superman live? Metropolis." Jackson was reaching the spill stage, where someone just wanted to talk, to get it out there. Chloe loved that stage. "I mean, and Superman, he's not going to come in and beat up Luthor on Batman's territory. He'd have to be pretty stupid to do that. You think Batman cares if Luthor builds weapons? Sure he does, but you know, he's smarter than Superman, he's gonna wait and see what he can learn first."

Hero worship was often so much more literal when it came from people who knew heroes as more than textbook legends. Gotham was just far enough away from Metropolis that even a large amount of Kryptonite wouldn't get to Clark, and Jackson was right, Clark was still feeling out being Superman, learning the ropes. Batman had been at it so long he was old school and Clark didn't want to piss him off, yet.

From what Chloe could tell, Clark was getting there, though. Sometimes, the boy that Clark wasn't anymore disappeared entirely underneath Superman. And Superman was the best. He was the strongest. He was the most powerful. Chloe worried for the day that Clark didn't temper Superman.

Not a lot, though, because it was a long way off, and maybe by then, the world wouldn't look so black and white, good and evil, to Clark. She'd learned the shades of gray that evil took a long time ago, cutting her teeth on Lex, on Lionel, on her own bitterness.

"Have you seen any green rocks around the plant?" Chloe asked. She gestured with her pen. "They might glow a little?"

"You mean Kryptonite?" Jackson laughed. "No."

"Why is Lex worried about Our Lady of Endless Sorrows?" Chloe ground the cigarette under her heel, watching Jackson follow it down and frown at her.

"I don't know. Ask Luthor. I just do what he tells me to do." Jackson glanced up at Slam for sympathy, then back at Chloe when Slam's only response was to grip Jackson's shoulder tightly. Jackson pulled a little to try to get out of the grip; it didn't work and he winced. "Look. I just follow orders, right? Luthor says, 'keep an eye out for anyone nosing around,' and I do. He says, 'if any reporter noses around Our Lady, bring them to me' and I do. He says, 'always wear a mask and goggles' and I do even though I look like a moron running around in 'em. I ain't the bad guy here, I'm just doing what Luthor says to."

"For a pretty high cost, I bet," Slam said. "How many other people did you deliver to Luthor?"

"Sure, I dunno, a couple. But, you see anyone else begging to give a guy like me a job? I didn't even finish high school." Jackson rolled his eyes. "Slam you gonna let me go? I won't tell Luthor about our little run in and you'll avoid problems with those hell bitches he has."

"Hope and Mercy?" Chloe asked. She grinned ruefully at Slam when he glanced at her. "Lex's bodyguards."

"They have names? They're fucking scary bitches. Meaner than the bat, I'll tell you that." Jackson rolled his shoulders and Slam tightened his hand on Jackson's shoulder. "Look, seriously, you don't print nothing and we'll just pretend none of this happened, right?"

Jerking his head towards the door, Slam headed out, waiting for Chloe to follow him. She turned the light out behind her. Once the door closed again, Slam asked, "Well?"

"Of course I'm going to print!" Chloe said.

The smile was uncomfortable on Slam's face. "That wasn't what I was asking. What do you think about Jackson's story?"

"It sounds like Lex. But if I know him, he's got more than one person on the job," Chloe kicked the metal door, rattling it loudly. "Damnit. Why couldn't Bruce have been killing hookers?"

Slam didn't grin, but his eyes crinkled in the corners. "I'm gonna let Jackson go. He'll be too scared to say anything anyway."

"Lex will kill him if he finds out." Chloe couldn't hide the surprise in her voice, Slam didn't seem like the type to let someone else die that easily. She was a little pissed off, too. Attempted kidnapper or not, she didn't need another death by Lex on her conscience.

"Jackson knows that. He's probably going to get the hell out of Dodge, go underground." Slam shrugged. "He'll be fine. Our kind always are."

Pulling up the door, Slam walked over to Jackson in the dark. "Hey, Slam," Jackson said, high and desperate. "I didn't really hurt her, you know? I woudn't've touched her if I knew you were taking care of her. I'm sorry, look, we'll figure something out, right?"

"Shut up, Jackson," Slam sounded tired, irritated. In the unlit room, Chloe could barely make out his shape when he unlocked the handcuffs.

As soon as he was free, Jackson sprinted out, pushing past Chloe without a second glance. He smelled like acrid sweat, and she made a face.

Locking up the unit again with slow movements, Slam put his hand on her shoulder, grasping it once. "You good, kid?"

Chloe nodded. She was tired, but wired. If she didn't call Clark soon, he might randomly appear and that wouldn't be good for anyone. Especially not for Lex if he really was building Kryptonite weapons.

"Where to now?" she asked.

"Well," Slam said dryly. "I thought since it's three in the morning, we'd go home and you'd call your friend in Metropolis to make sure we don't get any unexpected visitors. The last thing we need is more... reporters showing up." The pause was only slightly emphasized, subtle in a way that she was surprised Slam could manage.

Grinning, Chloe said, "That sounds like a good plan."

*****

As soon as she was sure that Slam was in his room, Chloe crept out Slam's living room window to his fire escape. It wasn't private, but it was a familiar view, city lights spread out in front of her. Usually, she saw it from rooftops, where Superman could land with the minimum fanfare.

Fishing her cell phone from her jeans pocket, she noted that she'd missed five calls from Clark. With a sigh, she dialed him. He picked up after half a ring. "Where are you?" Accusing, he said, " You weren't answering your phone."

"Yeah, sorry. I was doing interviews all day." Chloe could practically hear the wheels turning in his head.

"For a fluff piece?" he asked.

"Well," she trailed off, let him figure it out.

"Chloe."

"It turns out that there's more to Bruce than meets the eye, but also," she paused, pinched the bridge of her nose. "Lex is doing something here."

"What?" It was not-Clark voice, it was Superman voice, and she wanted him to be there in person so that she could poke him and tell him to take off the voice, it was _her_.

"I don't know. But if you see him, could you tell Superman that now would not be a good time to come to Gotham to try to have summit meetings or whatever with Batman?" Drumming her nails on the metal railing, Chloe waited for Clark's sigh.

"Keep your cell phone on and _answer_ it, ok? And, uh, _call_ if you need any help. Or if you need anything."

Clark had always had the ability to make her feel safer by just saying he'd keep her safe, no matter how untrue or impossible it was.

"Of course," she said. "Hey. I miss you."

She was surprised at how true that was.

"I miss you, too," Clark said.

"I'll call back later," she said. "Bye."

"Bye," he echoed. She waited for a moment before ending the call.

When she climbed back in the window, she tried to be quiet back on her way to the guest bedroom, but didn't have to bother. There were voices in Slam's bedroom, low, but Chloe couldn't help pausing, nearly leaning her ear against the door to hear. The type of people that could come and leave apartments without anyone knowing were the same type of people that wore costumes and knew more than Chloe did about the darker, seedier parts of crime.

The name 'Lex Luthor' was familiar even through the barrier of wood because of the syllables and the way that it was spat out, angry and disgusted. It was a woman's voice and it was close to the door, Chloe leaned in a bit more, not surprised when the door opened and there was a costumed woman standing, back lit.

"She's kind of small, Slam," the woman said. "If you're going to listen at the doorway, you probably should just come in."

Walking back, the woman perched on Slam's windowsill, hunching over a little. It was really unfair, Chloe thought, that anyone could look that good in skintight spandex.

"Catwoman," Slam seemed amused by the word, as though he was the only person on earth that realized how ridiculous it was to call a grown woman that. "This is Chloe Sullivan, from the Daily Planet."

"The little puppy that came sniffing around about Lex Luthor?" Catwoman asked.

Rolling her eyes, Chloe asked, rhetorically, "Why does everyone think it was about Lex?"

"What? Gotham can't read? Everyone knows you have it out for Luthor." Catwoman waved a hand dismissively, her fingers ending in what had to be claws.

"Why are you here?" Chloe asked.

"Why're _you_ here?" Catwoman grinned, one side of her mouth twisting up. "You could have afforded any hotel in Gotham, I imagine."

"No one gets into news for the money," Chloe said. She glanced at Slam who was still sitting on his bed, in the same shirt he'd been wearing all day.

"Just the Pulitzers," Catwoman said. "I'm off, Slam. Thanks for the heads up." She slung her legs over the window and was gone before Chloe even got to the window to check.

"They all do that," Slam said, helpfully.

Chloe pulled her head back in, sat at the wooden chair near Slam's desk. "What did you tell her?"

If possible, Slam slumped further in on himself; he cracked his knuckles at once, the sound of bones grinding was familiar to Chloe. She extended her fingers and brought them back, sympathetic joints cracking.

"She already knew what Luthor was up to anyway," Slam said. "You called your friend?"

"Yeah." Chloe shut the window. "Did she have any information about why Lex was here?"

Slam rolled his neck, staring up at the ceiling as he spoke. "Doesn't ever work like that with her type, you should know that." He looked at her, tired, sad, but _sharp_. "You going to sleep, or are you going to try to kick Luthor out of town right now?"

The edge of his voice was twisted, it was something she could cut herself on. He protected people because it was what he did, he helped other people hunt down the really bad guys because no one else should have to step up to the plate. Chloe heard it in his voice and wondered if that was what anyone else heard in hers.

"I'll sleep," she said. "We'll start early tomorrow?"

"Good." Slam nodded at her, like she'd just signed up at the nearest army post and she wondered if in his eyes that was what this was. War for Gotham, war for the East End, war for good and kittens and puppies.

Chloe's room was dark and she took off her shirt and bra, pulled on a soft tank top. Toeing out of her shoes, she unbuttoned her jeans, sat on the low bed to take them off, leaving on her underwear. She crawled between the sheets, which still smelled like bleach even after she'd slept in them for two days.

*****

She'd left the shades open and woke to a dark sky, the sun barely up.

The coffee pot was on and the kitchen table was empty, no open folders, no newspaper. She didn't wonder now if the vicarious thrill she had gotten from reading was intended as a distraction.

"You're up," Slam said from the couch. He was watching the television muted, wearing a new shirt but the same pants.

"How long was I asleep?" Chloe took a mug out of the cupboard, poured herself a cup of coffee. Her first sip made her wince, bitter and too strong, but not strong enough to make up for the lost sleep.

"Three hours. You ready or do you need a shower?" He was still staring at the screen, and she blushed a little, realized she was in a tank top and her underwear. But he didn't seem to notice, glanced over only once, a prompt without words.

"Shower," she said, leaving her nearly full cup on his table.

When she came out again, she was ready to face the world, clean jeans, clean shirt, push-up bra. Slam had his coat on, a long gray overcoat that fit with the wrinkled white shirt, the deep lines around his eyes. "Let's go," he said.

They took his car, and she held back an embarrassing, "Thank _God_," when he stopped in a McDonald's drive through, ordering three Egg McMuffins, hashbrowns and two coffees. The watered down coffee was hot, scalding her tongue, but she was awake, up, ready.

She'd finished off an Egg McMuffin before they were two blocks away from the golden arches. "Where to?" Slam asked.

"Do you know anyone in Records?" Chloe asked, around her first bite of greasy hashbrown goodness.

Slam shrugged, waited for her to continue. She was getting used to speaking his language.

"Apparently, Lex just bought this warehouse recently?" Chloe paused. "Which means paperwork. Do you know the address of the place?"

"Yeah," Slam said. "You don't want to visit it?"

Chloe laughed, said, "You think they'd let us look around if we asked _real_ nicely?"

"Good," Slam said. "You've got a good head on your shoulders, kid."

Finishing off the hashbrowns, she unwrapped one of the other Egg McMuffins and handed it to Slam. They drove in silence.

At Records, Slam walked in and nodded at the receptionist. "Rosanne, this is Chloe," he said.

"Ah," she said. "I hear you charmed our Mr. O'Malley last night." She looked like something directly taken from the fifties and put behind a modern computer, but Chloe had noticed almost everything in Gotham looked like it was from some other time.

"Do you know anything about 2020 Waterfront?" Slam asked, he leaned on the counter, ducking his head so that he was at her eye level.

Her mouth still pursed, she raised an eyebrow expressively. "I might be able to save you some research, yes."

"I'll owe you a favor," Slam said.

"_Another_ favor, you mean." Her gaze flicked to Chloe, then back to Slam. "Will it help get rid of the unwanted Metropolis guest?"

For half a second, Chloe wondered what she'd done to piss the woman off, until she realized that Rosanne must be talking about Lex.

"You know it," Slam said.

"Always can count on you, Slam," she said. "Come with me."

Rosanne propped up a small gold and black sign on the desk that read, "Be back soon! Please wait!" and stood. Her high heels snapped officially on the floor as she walked back to a room that Chloe hadn't been in before. File cabinets ran to the high ceiling and Rosanne climbed one of the moveable ladders and opened a cabinet. Slam was looking at the ground and it took Chloe a second to realize he was trying to not look up Rosanne's skirt.

"Such a gentleman," she said, nudging him.

"Shut up, kid," Slam said, but the lines around his eyes deepened, made it a smile without the lips.

Rosanne handed Slam two thick file folders. "Everything that we have on 2020 Waterfront."

"Everything?" Chloe asked, surprised.

Blinking once, Rosanne dryly said, "I like doing research. Also, it saves your type time when you don't have to do it yourselves."

Slam opened the folder, said, "Thanks, Rosanne."

"Give it back to me when you're done, Slam." She was already walking away, shutting the door softly behind herself.

Slam moved to the nearby table, sat down heavily. Handing Chloe the second folder, Slam kept reading, kept flipping pages. Chloe opened to the newest documents, found that a company she knew was one of Lex's puppets had bought the property six months ago, paging backwards, it had been up for sale by Trustee Realty, she jotted down the names. The file was thick with history, with inspections, with everything that it had used to be before it was turned into a factory again.

"Used to be a club a decade back, before it folded," Slam said, suddenly. "Then nothing for a while. Right before the 'quake, Our Lady was renting the space."

Chloe looked up, "They didn't own it?"

"Nope. Were renting it. Then the quake happened and -- you got the earthquake inspection papers there?"

"Yeah," Chloe pulled the pink carbon copy out. "Looks like it didn't pass by... a lot. The owner was trying to dump it?"

Nodding, Slam closed his own folder. "Wouldn't be the first business that tried to get out of dealing with East End damage by selling. You know, they rebuilt downtown Gotham in a few months? Down here, you go around any corner and still cracks in the sidewalk, still broken buildings. Most people just wanted out of the East End after, it cost too much to make buildings habitable again."

"Let's go ask the realtors what the bidding war was like on that," Chloe tapped her notepad, thought of something. "Hey, do you know anything about Lex being here about ten years ago? Maybe hanging out with some hookers?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Slam said, "Nope. Wouldn't surprise me though. You think that there's a connection between then and now?"

"That would have been during his drunk and disorderly phase. I bet there's pictures," Chloe said. "Everything with Lex is connected. The man's a walking network of 'serendipitous' connections."

She couldn't help but grin, because where there was Lex there were pictures and people who collected them. Personally, she'd never understood it, she was more of a Brad Pitt girl herself, but some girls were obsessed with bald, sociopath criminals. Some of those girls had whole collections of Lex pictures, a couple of them could probably pull up anything from ten years ago faster than she could find them herself.

"Is there a library around here? Internet," she explained. "What? A girl can't just want old pictures of Lex for on, my god! A manip! Wouldn't that be so cool?" She raised her voice to grade school levels at the last.

"Kids today," Slam said, but he jerked his head and dropped the files off in front of Rosanne.

"Find what you were looking for?" she asked.

"Yup. Good research as always," Slam said.

Rosanne hummed low.

The library was huge, green walls that looked like they hit the sky. "Gotham Public Library," Slam said. "Wayne funded."

"Is there anything that Bruce doesn't buy for the city?" Chloe touched the wall compulsively, followed Slam inside to the rows and rows of new Apple computers.

"Nope. How long will you be?" Slam's hands were deep in his pockets.

"Ten minutes?" Chloe said.

The rows of newspapers called to her, but the present was in a few of the online based Lex-obsessed teenagers. She didn't watch Slam walk off, gave him trust with a fake sense of security. Online, she was Lexsgurl123, even had her own website. Sometimes, when she got drunk and Clark was willing to play along, she posted about her love on her blog, laughing hard enough to cry at every use of "love" and every time she could misspell any words in the phrase "media is made up of jealous bitches who just hate him because they're lesbians." She was particularly fond of the entry where she compared Lex to JFK.

An e-mail to her friends list later and she wouldn't have to look up the old photos of Lex herself.

She found Slam asleep in a chair, leaning back, hat over his face. "Slam," she whispered.

Jerking, he sat up, hat falling off his face. "Ready?"

"Yeah," she said. They were stirring pots, rocking boats, being nearly every metaphor she knew for making trouble. This was why she loved her job. "Let's go talk to the man with the percentage in driving up real estate prices."

*****

Trustee Realty was high end for people who sold waterfront warehouses. In the car, Chloe said, "Ok, I'm going to be someone from out of town and you're helping me localize my illegal business."

Slam shrugged and said, "What's your name?"

"Amber Livingston." He glanced at her, appearing surprised by how quickly the name flowed off her tongue. She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, Mr. I'm-more-repressed-than-God, like you never pretended to be anyone else."

"I was a cop for a lotta years, kid," he paused and corrected, carefully. "Miss Livingston."

"Great," Chloe said, opening her door. She looked down, she was still wearing her semi-professional jacket over her semi-professional shirt. "I look the part, right? Drug runner?"

"C'mon, kid, get in character." Slam rolled down his sleeves, buttoned them, pulled on his overcoat and hat.

Shaking her shoulders, Chloe thought about who she was, who she could have been. Stopped thinking about Clark. Amber had been on the streets forever, finally realized that running her own outfit would be more efficient. Chloe nodded. She was good.

Checking the name she wrote down again, she walked in, confident and pissed off at the world. The receptionist looked up from typing and said, "Can I help you?" as her fingers finished trailing off the keyboard.

"I want to talk about real estate with Hugh Allen." She'd crossed her arms under her breasts and glanced back at Slam, said, "That was the guy, right?"

Nodding, Slam ducked his chin, appeared to be trying to disappear into thin air.

"Are you sure?" the receptionist smiled, trying to be pleasant and nice. "Maybe one of our other agents?"

"What's wrong with Allen?" Chloe leaned in, took herself down a notch, tried to look interested.

"Well, it's just that, uh," the receptionist smiled hesitantly. "He's been let go."

"Why?" Chloe couldn't help it, the question came out more like Chloe than Amber. Chloe was eager and interested, hiding a deep bitterness, where Amber was openly mean. She internally reminded herself, _Amber_.

The receptionist looked around, leaned over and said, "I don't know the details, but it was a big deal right before I was hired, he was a huge black eye for the company." She pulled back, smiling conspiratorially. "One of our other agents would be glad to help you, though."

Her hand hovered near the telephone and Slam stepped up next to Chloe. "We actually aren't interested in property," he said, calmly.

If he'd been Clark she would have kicked him in the ankle, because _way to break cover._ Instead, she settled for a low grade glare, something she used on the Copy Editors who asked her to use less adjectives.

Blinking, the receptionist said, "Look, if you're some sort of loan sharks, I really can't-"

Slam reached inside his coat and took out a business card, corners bent, but still a card. He handed it to the receptionist and said, "I'm Slam Bradley, Private Investigator, and this is my partner, Amber Livingston. We're actually here because a client of ours, Jean Toft," he pulled out a picture, Chloe caught a flash of a brunette girl before the receptionist took it, "is looking for her father."

Immediately softening, the receptionist said, "Why?"

"Apparently, her mother never told her who her father was until right before she died of cancer," Slam said, solemn bearer of other people's gossip. He took the picture back and looked down at it, seeming sad. "And now that her mother's gone, she wants to find what's left of her family."

"Well," the receptionist twisted her mouth thoughtfully, and then pulled out a notepad with the Trustee Realty header. She typed something into her computer and then started writing on the notepad. "Obviously I can't give you his address. But, here's his cell phone number."

Chloe snatched the piece of paper out of the woman's hand as soon as she held it up. The fine receptionist script was clear and she grinned, excited. "Thanks, you have no idea what this will mean to her."

Shepherding Chloe out the door, Slam nodded, "You're a good person."

Outside, Chloe said, "Slam! You've been holding out on me."

Unlocking his car he said, "Get in the car, Chloe."

"Who was the girl?" Chloe asked, already opening her cell phone to begin dialing.

"Some girl from a few years ago," Slam said, slow. "She looks like everyone's daughter."

Chloe turned to stare at him, "Is she your daughter?"

It caused Slam to snort. "You think any girl that pretty got her face from this ugly mug?"

"But you have kids," Chloe said. She watched the way that Slam reacted, a slight tightening of his hands, outwardly still calm, halfway smiling. In the daylight he looked more out of place than ever, the rough skin of his knuckles and deep shadows under his eyes looked like they belonged to some other, weaker, man.

"Don't call him yet," Slam said, instead. He turned the steering wheel, accelerated onto the freeway. The city became buildings passing nearly too quickly, Chloe caught pieces of the world as they drove past houses and stores.

"We aren't going back to the East End?" she asked.

"Financial district," Slam said. "Call him and tell him that you're with Fidelity Insurance and you want to talk with him about an inheritance. People always want an inheritance. Tell him that he has to meet you downtown at the Fidelity building and to ask for you by name at the front desk."

Getting off the freeway in one smooth twist and press on his brake, Slam said, "Sound bored, frustrated even. You've been trying to get a hold of him for weeks." He dug one handed into his pocket, pulled out a wallet, and a business card from that. "Give him this address."

"Ok," Chloe tamped down on her smile. Clark's idea of subterfuge involved putting on glasses and hoping that no one noticed how Clark Kent was never seen with Superman.

She cleared her throat, dialed. "Mister Allen?"

The voice on the other end was suspicious, "Yeah?"

Chloe sighed into a New York accent. "My name is Amber Livingston, I'm with Fidelity Insurance. We've been trying to get in touch with you for the past three weeks, and unless you come in now, I'm afraid we will have to give the insurance money to the state."

"Insurance money?" Allen was eager now, slick in a way that carried over the phone line.

Rolling her eyes to Slam, she caught him grinning, too. "I'm afraid that with amounts like this, we don't like to discuss it over the phone. Do you have time to come to our offices within the next two hours?"

"Sure, yeah," there was rummaging on his end and Allen said, "What's the address?"

Chloe read it off, wondered briefly why Slam had the President of Fidelity Insurance's business card. "Please bring some form of ID, and ask for me at the front desk, Mr. Allen. That's Amber Livingston. See you soon." She couldn't help it, the guy sounded like Lex's spin doctors.

When she hung up, she slid her fingers along the edges of the card. "So, we hang out and wait for him to show up?"

"Got it in one," Slam said. He pulled into a parking garage, parked on the first floor. "Need more coffee?"

Laughing, Chloe got out of the car, shook her head. "No, I'm good."

The buildings in the financial district were tall, formal looking, painfully new when contrasted with the jagged criminal look of the East End, the gothic darkness of Gotham proper, and the expensive exteriors of Gotham's wealthy outskirts.

Slam didn't look up, but Chloe couldn't help it, it looked so much like Metropolis that she expected to see a streak of red and blue overhead. Slam opened a glass door, held it until she walked inside, found herself in the reception area for Fidelity Insurance.

Neither the security guard, nor the receptionist seemed surprised at Slam's disheveled look. "Slam," the woman said, adjusting her headset. "Do you want me to call Mr. Jacobs?"

"No," Slam sat down on a couch. "We're just going to hang out here for a while."

Chloe sat nearby, watched the receptionist go back to ignoring them, the security guard glance over every minute like clockwork.

"Come here often?" Chloe said, amused.

"No," Slam said.

Her phone rang and she pulled it out automatically, checked the number, and flipped it open. "Hey, Clark."

"Have you seen it yet?" He sounded eager, puppy-happy. "Perry put it front page this morning, and everyone else is trying to catch up by putting it on their websites."

"Perry published and didn't call me?" Chloe knew she was nearly screaming, but the receptionist was ignoring her and the security guard seemed to find people-watching through the glass doors more interesting. "I have to find a paper, Clark, I'll call you back."

Standing, pulling on her coat, grabbing her bag, she said, rushed, "I have to find a Daily Planet. I'll be right back. Call me if he gets here."

"Don't go too far," Slam warned.

Chloe was already out the door, looking for an inevitable newspaper stand, coffee stand, something where she could find her byline and her story. In a nearby courtyard, she spotted a familiar locus of color pictures, black and white print. She walked over, pulling out money awkwardly.

The usual suspects were there, with a lot more bias towards Gotham papers, and she scanned for the familiar typeface, the photo she'd pressured Perry into choosing to run with the story. "Hey," she said, short and irritated when it wasn't front and center. "Where's the Daily Planet?"

The man working looked irritated, but pointed, and she found it next to a Gotham gossip rag. "Here," she said, shoving her money at him. The headline wasn't what she would have wanted, _Luthor Bribes Metropolis Unions_, but, it was her name, her story, her research. She took the change handed to her without counting it, read her story again, to see what the Copy Editors had changed while she was away.

Half listening, she caught the person behind her chatting with the vendor. "-well, really, it's Wayne's fault for dating a prostitute. Although, _Lex Luthor_, you'd think anyone from Gotham would have better taste."

The vendor was nodding, and Chloe looked over, found herself staring at a picture of the girl from Bruce Wayne's house at an outdoor café with Lex. Pulling the change out of her pocket, Chloe grabbed the nearest semi-reputable Gotham paper. "I'll take this, too," she said, handing over the money. "Keep it."

Slowly, reading while walking, Chloe headed back towards Fidelity Insurance. The article said little more than its headline did, _Selina Kyle found on romantic New York getaway with Lex Luthor_, except for the odd emphasis on Selina's shady past, the indictment for prostitution when she was 19, the disappearance for nearly eight years, only showing up recently to appear Bruce Wayne's arm.

"You shouldn't believe what newspapers publish," a woman said from right behind Chloe. "Most of it's crap."

Chloe spun, found herself facing Selina Kyle, dressed more formally in a business suit. Her long hair was pulled up into a clean bun. Her lower lip was swollen, covered artfully with makeup. She looked different from the sensual woman in Bruce Wayne's home, more severe.

"Well, I like to think that at the Daily Planet we publish the best of the crap," Chloe said, glibly. It was weird not having Clark to guide her around people while she read, to warn her when strange women had come up behind her.

"The Daily Planet, bullshit at its finest," Selina checked her watch. "I have a meeting. We should do lunch."

Right, Chloe thought, rolling her eyes inside. She didn't even try to stop herself. "Were you really a prostitute?"

"Yes," Selina said. "A long time ago."

"Ten years ago?" Chloe guessed, because how many East End hookers could be named Selina? She held puzzle pieces in her hands, but she couldn't figure out if they were all for the same puzzle or if Lex really did have a dead hooker in his closet.

"About that long. It's in all the papers if you want the _full_ story." Selina was arch and sarcastic, seemingly amused by the idea of her deepest, darkest secret being revealed in newsprint. She waved a hand at Chloe, began walking off. "See you later, Chloe."

"Lunch?" Chloe asked, wanted to quiz Selina now. _Did you ever see Lex down here? Did you really scare him off? Where's your sister? Was this all gossip?_

"Sure." Selina continued walking down the street.

Slam was just opening the door when Chloe got back to the office; his hand was tight on a man's elbow. Chloe did a quick up down survey of the guy �" tall, white, with this slicked back black hair that made her grimace. Up close, he reeked of cologne, not artfully scented, like Bruce or Lex, but soaked in the stuff, like he'd taken a bath in A&amp;F Woodsman to cover the scent of failure she saw in his dirty suit. The cuffs were worn, dirty, and when Slam strong-armed him into the parking garage, she saw a pale yellow stain on the front of his shirt.

"I always wondered what happened to WASPS when they failed at life. Now, I know," she said, waited for the loosening of the frown lines that meant Slam was laughing on the inside.

"If Wayne sent you, doesn't he see that I'm already as low as I can go? I'm sorry, ok? I'm so sorry," he started crying, dry hitching sobs that twisted something deep inside Chloe. Something about the pathetic nature of grown men crying in front of strangers, idealized gender roles and all, but it hit her the same way that the helplessness of dirty, grungy homeless kids made her want to beat her fists against something.

For all that he could save them from being shot or being blown up, Superman couldn't save anyone from their own lives.

"We aren't with Wayne," Slam said, shortly.

"We just want to take you out for a cup of coffee," Chloe said. "Hear your side of the story."

It was her saccharine voice, and it worked on most desperate people. When she glanced back at Slam, his jaw had tightened. Well, even if _he_ thought that this guy hadn't done anything to deserve Chloe's pity, she did.

The guy nodded, face in his hands. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. Oh, God."

Chloe glared hard at Slam until he sighed, pulled the car into a diner parking lot. "Pull yourself together," he growled at the guy.

Strangely, it worked. Gasping hard, the guy wiped his eyes, red from the crying and rubbing, but nearly dry. Chloe fished out her pack of emergency tissues and handed them over so that he could blow his nose.

Slam opened, the backseat door, let the guy out, but kept a hand tight on his elbow. In a more liberal city, Chloe thought that Slam and Allen might have seemed lovers, but in Gotham, the waitress just glanced between the three of them and seated them as far in the back as she could. Away from the few families and children. The waitress dropped their menus on the table and left without giving them the lunch specials.

"Lunch time," Chloe commented, briefly looked out the window, ignored the nearly empty restaurant. She and Slam had trapped Allen in the circular booth, and she was staring at Slam when she said it.

"No." When the waitress came back Slam said, "Three coffees."

"Sure," she said, tucked her pen and order pad back into her apron, took the menus.

"Talk," Slam said. The waitress returned with a pot of coffee, three empty mugs. She filled them quickly, left again.

Allen sighed, as though he were Atlas and this was too much for him to bear. "You want to know about the Waterfront deal? That's what you said."

"How did Lex get it?" Chloe asked. She pulled out her notepad, opened it to the mess of notes that was Gotham, pages covered in blue ink.

"After the quake, the seller, this business guy from midtown, wanted out. So, I listed it. Tried to sell it to a business, because I didn't think that the nuns would want it." He shook his head. "Only they _did_ and they were offering three quarters asking price. Which is..."

He trailed off, made a helpless motion. "I couldn't get the buyer to back off. He wanted what he'd paid for it, but he didn't get that there was no market for anything in the East End. I mean, the place was trash and he wanted what it had been worth before the quake."

Chloe nodded. "So, the nuns wanted it, seller wanted more money. Where did Luthor come from?"

"Out of nowhere, I get contacted by some guy, who works for Luthor. They're looking for something waterfront, with direct shipping access. Their starting bid was more than the asking price." He drank some of his coffee, smeared what had spilled over with his thumb. "So, I tell the seller that it's a lot better than he's going to get."

"And he took it?" Chloe said.

"Not right away, the seller was getting cold feet about the whole deal," Allen shook his head. "No one was supposed to know it was Luthor, and so I just tell the nuns that they've been out bid because Sister fuckin' Magdalene was calling me every day. As soon as the papers are drawn up, ready to sign I get another call. Sister Maggie's come up with enough money to reach the asking price. I didn't ask how."

Looking down at her notes, Chloe realized that she had written _Sister Maggie??_, nearly crossed it out before leaving it. "So, why didn't you sell it to the Our Lady?"

Allen looked down, ran a hand through his hair, and looked as though he was about to say something up there on the scale of Biblically stupid things. "They'd pissed me off. Sister Maggie really wanted the place and wouldn't let it go. Also, Luthor was still out bidding them, so I didn't tell the client, we signed the papers and then Bruce Wayne calls our firm, 'Everything that has turned earthquake recovery into a nightmare for victims.'" His voice rose high on the impression, whiney and parodied upper class. "'They turned the horror of our tragedy into a chance for profit.'"

"You didn't know he'd given Our Lady the money," Chloe said.

Snorting Allen said, "He didn't give Our Lady the money, he gave Sister Maggie the money. God, if I'd known it was _Bruce Wayne_ that wanted it..." He took on his helpless, lost expression again. "I'm not against Gotham. The way he made me sound, like I was some sort of vulture preying on the people hurt by the 'quake. I was here, too. I was in Gotham when it happened. You don't get to tell me that I'm evil."

"Why did he give Sister Maggie the money?" Chloe asked, she underlined what she's written, the pieces coming together in odd ways.

"I don't know. All I know is she was the only nun in the background of that press conference." Allen finished off his coffee just as the waitress came back. He smiled, a thin, watery, pathetic smile that made the waitress look away, uncomfortable.

Slam was stoic across the table, drank a gulp of coffee loudly. "What did Luthor want it for?"

"He didn't say, didn't even want to see the place." Allen looked at Chloe. "He didn't even ask me if I knew any good contractors to help with the damage. I gave his guy a list, but, after the papers were signed and we got the money, we never saw him again."

Allen tapped one finger on the table. "I'm pretty sure we helped him set up something bad. A factory for something. From what I hear, the third world might as well be Gotham for all it matters." He made the now universal, Superman flying motion. "I mean, Superman can get anywhere, right?"

"Thanks, Allen," Chloe said, she touched his hand once - maintain contact was one of her billion first rules. When you leave them, don't make them feel like you're abandoning them even when you are.

She stood, watched Slam do the same, trotted out behind him. As soon as they were outside, she said, "Do you think that Sister Magdalene is involved in some sort of cover-up of Selina's past?"

Slam blinked, obviously not what he was thinking. "When?" He didn't ask, 'why do you think that?' because she knew he expected her to answer that one anyway.

"Selina Kyle was a hooker when she was younger. About ten years ago, when Lex was doing his playboy druggie whore of the world thing." She held up her first finger, listed the rest of her points. "Around then, ten years ago, Bruce Wayne donates a ton of money to the convent and Selina disappears. Later, she shows up and starts dating Bruce, they're the perfect twu wuv couple and Bruce donates a lot of money to help get Lex back out of Gotham and to help Sister Magdalene keep her clinic open. That property was important to Sister Magdalene and if you think that was accidental that Lex out bid her you're joking with yourself."

Chloe inhaled in a gasp, ready to defend her theory. She didn't need Smallville Wall of Weird to put together a mystery.

Pulling out a cigarette, Slam lit it, looked hard at her. "What are you going to write your article about?" He asked, and it did sound like Perry, the way that Perry would stop her mid-Lex-rant #24 and ask her what was news about Lex being an asshole.

"Lex building kryptonite weapons in Gotham," she answered slowly. "Or whatever else illegal he's doing."

"Does digging up the past of those two girls really help you with that?" He unlocked his car door and got in.

"No," Chloe said, pulling open her own door, sliding into the seat. "But, it's- don't you think that it's important?"

"Not the way that you do," Slam said. "Those two, if you're right, have survived hell and back getting Luthor out of the East End the first time. You publish their story and it becomes gossip, Selina gets it harder from the press, Sister Magdalene can't get anyone to donate to her clinic."

Chloe was silent, watched the streets pass by, waited a few blocks before she asked, "Where are we going?"

"Where do you want to go?" Slam said. "What do you need to prove that Luthor's building something bad?"

Sighing, Chloe thought of the headache that research would be, pulling on any number of her sources to try and find out who Lex was buying the parts from. If he wasn't secretly making them himself. "Someone with firsthand knowledge would be nice. One of the workers coming clean with a sample of whatever Lex is doing."

"Call your friend," Slam said. "Find something to do for a couple of hours."

"And what will you be doing?" Chloe asked, even though she was pretty sure she didn't want to know.

"Finding you a source," Slam said. "Talking to union people, finding out who's scabbing."

He stopped the car in front of a high-end boutique, the beginning of a strip of shops where price tags were considered gauche. If they were having a fire sale, Chloe still wouldn't be able to afford anything in the store. "What am I supposed to do here?"

"Not get into trouble," Slam said. "I'll call you when I'm done."

Chloe slammed the door hard behind her, vindictive. She knew why she couldn't go, though, even understood it. In her career, she'd had more than her share of touchy informants, the ones that wouldn't talk even with goofy, friendly, Clark Kent dork-extraodinaire in the room. Gotham wasn't her town; she was an outsider and was playing at being the hero here. She understood deeply why Clark was so hesitant to even step inside the city limits.

Standing outside the boutique, tastefully named, "Dessous", she dialed Clark's number, second on her speed dial.

The sound of Clark's voicemail clicked in, and she didn't even listen to the message, waited for the tone and said, "Clark. I'm calling you to tell you that things are still going well and if you have time, could you maybe ask your _tech savvy_ friend to see if Luthor's been purchasing any weapon parts? Missiles, maybe? Guns? Miss you." She shut her phone and went into the shop because one of the shop girls kept throwing her dark looks.

She was looking at the most ridiculous bra she'd ever seen when she heard a familiar voice say, "Well, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were better as a paparazzi than a journalist."

The bra would look perfect on Selina Kyle, who had the type of body that Chloe would think was only on TV if she didn't know Lex dated girls who looked like that all the time. "You said we should do lunch," Chloe grinned, tried to make it look less odd that she was in a lingerie store with Bruce Wayne's girlfriend.

"Well," Selina tilted her head, slightly. "Let's go, then."

Dropping the underwear she was holding on the counter, Selina leaned in towards the shop girl. "Call me when you aren't so elitist to friends of Bruce Wayne," Selina didn't need to glance at Chloe for the girl to blush, glance apologetically at Chloe.

In the fresh air, Selina slid her sunglasses out of her hair, pushed them onto her face. Her mouth twitched when Chloe burst out laughing. "She thinks that you're one of Bruce Wayne's mistresses now," the statement was bland, curiosity the cautious cat creeping around the words.

"Oh, man, but it's worth it," Chloe said. "I don't know what's good to eat around here."

"Nothing's good," Selina said. "Everything's expensive, which is mistaken for good by the stupid."

"Well, lead on," Chloe said. "You can buy."

"Bruce can buy," Selina said, tossing her hair with one hand. "Here." She opened the door to a restaurant with tall glass windows, high trees indoors, quiet lunch patrons in business suits and summer dresses.

The hostess smiled faintly when she saw them, as though she didn't want to give too much away.

"Reservation for Bruce Wayne?" Selina wasn't even looking at the girl, instead staring out the window. She hadn't taken off her sunglasses yet; she looked bored.

The hostess gathered two menus, said, "Mister Wayne was seated twenty minutes ago." Chloe wondered if it was strictly a Gotham thing, to be so proprietary about the celebrities.

Selina smiled faintly, a hint of a threat that made the hostess duck her head. At the table, Bruce was looking through a folder, holding red wine in one hand. When he saw them, he stood, closing the folder.

The hostess held out Selina's seat, but Selina leaned over, pressing her mouth soft and sensually against Bruce's before she sat down, grinning at the hostess's averted eyes. Chloe sat before the whole thing could become even more awkward.

"You're late," Bruce said, fliply, he used his napkin to wipe the smear of lipstick off of his mouth.

"You didn't care," Selina said, examining the menu. "I brought press, Bruce, try to behave."

Bruce shrugged; his smile seemed dangerous. Chloe wanted to be able to say, "touché" like he could -- non-verbally and nearly aggressive. They were staring at each other as though they would love to hurt each other, Chloe knew how many times she'd looked at Clark like that, knew that he'd never once reflected it back at her with half the passion that Bruce was using to tell Selina he hated her, wanted her dead, was angry, _wanted her now_.

"What's good here?" Chloe asked brightly, staring at the menu, the words were foreign to her mental food lexicon of hamburgers, pizza, Mexican, and Chinese.

"Everything," Bruce said. "I can order for you, if you'd like?"

The waiter arrived, more quietly and formal than the diner waitress from earlier, but the same edge of service-industry boredom that Chloe, luckily, never had to learn. "Would you like to order now?"

"Yes, I'll have the Caesar salad. Chloe will have the shitake mushroom. And Selina-"

"Can order for herself," Selina said. "I'll have steak, rare. I like it bloody." She was staring at Bruce when she said it, handed over her menu without looking away.

They were both still smiling, creepy, angry, wanting smiles that made Chloe want to pull out her tape recorder just to see what they would say. Instead she bit into a piece of bread, said, "It's too bad how Our Lady of Endless Sorrow lost the clinic space."

Both of them turned to look at her, sharply interested, intrigued. Selina looked dangerous, Bruce looked impassive. "It is," Bruce finally agreed. "They were doing good work."

"Yeah, I saw that you gave them some financial help for that." Chloe buttered the bread, ignoring that she was the only one eating it.

The wine at Bruce's elbow was untouched still, though both he and Selina were continuously drinking water.

"Bruce likes to help out lost causes," Selina said, her voice slightly hoarse, when she looked over at him.

Shrugging, Bruce said, "Of course, they'll find new space."

"But it won't be the same, will it, Bruce?" Selina said, arching an eyebrow, her mouth tight. "They wanted that space for old memories, to wash away a den of sin? Isn't that how you put it?"

Silently, Bruce raised his wine glass to his lips, took what couldn't even be called a sip, placed it back down. "I called the area somewhere that needed to be reborn, but you'd know that better than I would. You spent time with Luthor there, what was it? Ten years ago?"

"Read that?" Selina asked. "You might have benefited from spending less time in that ivory tower of yours. Lex did."

If this was how they fought, careful innuendoes and secrets told in public like strips of pain they were exacting from each other's skin in moderate tones, Chloe was glad that Clark never looked at her like they looked at each other. Clark fought with her earnestly, they always knew what was on the table. Chloe had no idea what Bruce and Selina's pink elephant was, but she figured that before the meal was over, she probably would.

Although, if the warehouse had used to be a club, if it had been a club that Lex used to frequent with Selina, then it couldn't be innocent that Sister Magdalene and Lex Luthor wanted the space. Opening her mouth, Chloe tried to formulate her question, found it impossible.

Her handbag vibrated and started ringing the Simpson's theme song. She blushed, when everyone turned to stare, even Bruce and Selina both looking more amused than irritated.

"I should get this," she said, pulling it out and silencing it. Clark. And he'd just get upset if she didn't answer. She walked to the door, trying not to rush out like the person that farted in the movie theater. "What?" she snapped when she was outside.

"Chloe?" Clark asked, carefully. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," she said, rubbing her eyes. "I'm fine."

"Oh, you just sounded-" he stopped. "I asked my 'friend' and he said that there hasn't been anything within the past ten months, but about a year ago Lex bought a lot of missile pieces in large quantities from different suppliers. What's going on?"

"I think that Lex is making Kryptonite weapons." She paused, looked around, expected to see Clark Kent, casually walking around the corner at any moment. The easiest way to "happen" to see Clark was to mention Lex and Kryptonite in the same sentence.

"Where?" Clark's voice was tight, furious. She was strangely relieved to know it wasn't directed at her.

"Gotham," she said. "He's got a factory up and running near the waterfront."

The pause was long, Clark's breathing audible. "And Batman hasn't stopped him." The words were dark, cold, Superman words. They barely resembled anything that Clark would say in a way that only three people -- four counting Lex -- truly understood.

"Not yet," Chloe said, hedging her bets.

"Well," Clark said, strangely flat. "You're going to write an article on it?"

"Yeah, I'm finding sources right now." Slam was right. The history of Lex trying to make two women pay for pissing him off when he was a sullen, high teenager was nothing when compared to him building weapons in Gotham just so that Superman wouldn't notice.

Clark's sigh was short. "Ok. I'll see you when I get back? Let me know if you need anything else. Call." He hung up without a goodbye.

Walking back inside, she sat down, realized that she shouldn't have left because the tension had shifted. Bruce and Selina were the gorgeous Gotham couple again, friendly smiles, sharing food. Bruce shifted away the questions about Selina's past with the same slick, blatant lies that Chloe remembered from their first interview.

The lunch was a wash, even though the meal was amazing.

Leaving the restaurant, both Bruce and Selina had "meetings" and they smiled, kind, vacant smiles that left Chloe's teeth on edge. Slam calling was the best sound she'd heard ever.

"Where are you?" he asked.

Ten minutes later, they were headed back towards the East End.

*****

The apartment didn't have a working elevator, so they took the stairwell. They passed a man wearing filthy clothes at the door to the stairs; the smell of homelessness something that Chloe knew from any of her other seedy Metropolis stories.

The guy that they were going to see used to be union, wasn't any more. He wanted back in though, as if the cold of not being in the club was finally taking its toll. In Gotham, unlike in Metropolis, unions seemed like they were still the brass knuckle gangs of the working class.

"Union or nothing," Slam had said, not looking away from the road. "He wants back in, and the bosses will let him if he helps get Luthor out of town. It just takes one business not working union for everyone to start."

"So, we're his ticket back in?" Chloe asked. The weird foreignness of her new story was just starting to get to her. She was the person that other people used, because she'd never come back, she'd never want a favor in return. If they were in Metropolis, no one would have made that mistake.

The guy was on the third floor, past the stain of urine and the black graffiti on the wall. He opened his door with resignation, looked down at the pathetic carpet when he let them in. He didn't offer them anything to drink, not that Chloe would have taken it.

"You're them?" he asked, sitting down on a worn couch.

"Yeah," Slam said.

Chloe pulled out her recorder, turned it on, and said, "So, what's your name?" in a voice that was meant to break the tension, the way it had in so many other interviews.

Chuckling, the guy said, "Well, I used to be Brian McCarthy, but then I got involved in this Luthor shit, and I don't know if I want to be that guy anymore."

"Sure," Slam said, irritated. "You want to be fucking John Doe. Fine. Tell us about Luthor."

"When I took the job, they said it was going to be low key, your average grab and jab. You know, slot a, tab b stuff." He ran a hand through his hair, and pushed a packet of developed photos over towards Chloe. "It wasn't. The first day, we put together some pretty high end metal stuff, but it's like anything, you do your small piece and the guy behind you does his and you don't know what the fuck it's supposed to look like unless you're the last guy on the line."

The pictures were bad - taken with a desperate need not to get caught that bled through with the machinery and fingers obscuring most photos. The most green photographer on _The Daily Planet's_ staff could have done better �" but they showed what Chloe needed to see: missiles, what looked like good sized anti-aircraft missiles, but she'd have to ask an expert. She handed the ones she was looking at to Slam. His whole face tightened.

"So, what made you start getting suspicious?" Chloe asked.

The guy twitched, and looked around. "Do you want some coffee?" he asked. "I want some coffee."

Still shaking a little, he walked into his half kitchen, grabbed a mug from the table and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot. The bottle of whiskey was next to the pot and he unscrewed it, poured in more than Chloe would have drunk even at happy hour.

It was afternoon in Gotham, the sun falling yellow orange into his kitchen. It was a desperate hour.

"There was this guy, right, this guy I've known my whole life. He lived down the street from me when I was a kid. He was the first one to get expelled from our high school. He said to me, 'hey, hey get out of the union so you can come work this job. Best money of your life.' and I did because, you know, times aren't great for us down here and it really was the best money I've ever earned." He drank a long swallow of the coffee, set it down on the table and some splashed out. "And one day, he starts getting sick really fast, faster than anything I've ever seen, and I didn't grow up in a neighborhood where sick was a cold. He got these spots, these blotches, and he started throwing up, right there on the line."

He walked back to his couch, slumped down, cradling the coffee between his hands. "And these doctors came out, real fast, in white coats and got him loaded into an ambulance, but when I called his house all there was this message that he and his wife had gone on vacation. So, I figure that they've got him stashed somewhere or Luthor forked over the vacation so he wouldn't sue." He paused again, finished off his coffee. "Only, that wasn't it. Because that was a few weeks ago, and he hasn't come back yet. His apartment's up for rent and it's like they erased him because, other than his old lady, there isn't any family. Union doesn't care because he broke rank."

Chloe had stopped shuffling through the pictures looking for the green of Kryptonite; it wasn't there. The guy was shaking again, shuffled back into the kitchen and poured himself whiskey again, without the pretense of coffee.

Whatever had happened didn't sound like any Kryptonite poisoning Chloe had ever heard of, but it sounded a lot like nuclear radiation poisoning. She shuddered.

"I don't have any family except for this brother in LA, and he wouldn't notice if I was gone. I want back in the union, because they'd notice, you know?"

Nodding, Chloe watched him swallow down the whiskey, put the mug in the sink and return to his seat. "Have you ever seen anything glow green around the plant? Any rocks? Anything special that they want you to be careful handling?"

"That was the thing, this guy, Craig, worked farther on from me and when he left I started handling his section. They told me I had to be very careful when I put my tab a in slot b. Basically it's just a bunch of these... Here, let me show you." He stood, a little unsteady and went into the only other room, came back out with a capsule the size of his hand wrapped in a plastic zip lock bag. "I got it out because I thought it would help. Here."

Chloe took it in her hands, it felt warm, and sloshed a little, like there was liquid inside. Confused, she looked at Slam, whose face was blank and cold. He took it from her. "You don't know what it is?" He growled, nearly snarling.

Brian shook his head, a jerky gesture, like a frightened animal.

"You don't know what it is and you took it outside where it could hurt people?" Slam put it down on the table, carefully.

"It can't be that bad, they don't have us wear practically any protective gear-"

"Because you're _expendable_," Slam said, again, really furious.

Looking between the two, Chloe said, "What happens to the finished product?"

"They're storing it there, everything we make gets put on these shelves in the other room. It's... a lot of them." He was shaking again, like Slam cut whatever bravery had led him to call the union in the first place. "Sometimes, these foreign guys come through, look at the finished missiles, we're supposed to pretend we don't see them, but how're you supposed to miss 'em?"

_Foreigners_ interested in the weaponry, Chloe jotted it down, traced it back. Lexcorp only did legal work with outsourcing, but she knew it wouldn't be the first time that Lex had sold things to nations that couldn't make it on their own. The military issue bazookas found in Somalia weren't coincidence, not when Lex had been staying in Kenya to "look into donating to charities."

Her mind jumped, worst case scenario, but so likely it made something burn in the back of her throat. If Lex started selling anti-Superman missiles to the countries who wanted to keep Superman _out_, he'd make more than a little money and he'd keep his hands clean when Superman got hit with one of the things.

"Are you getting sick?" Chloe asked, watched for a reaction.

"No," he said, jerking his head again. "I don't think so, or not like he did. Sometimes, I have trouble, though with moving my left hand." He clenched and unclenched it as an example.

"What happens to people who quit?" Chloe asked.

"Well, only one person did, right after, this guy that wasn't in the union in the first place. And he just didn't show up one day, none of us called because he never talked, wasn't really social." He wrapped his right hand nearly all the way around his left. "He probably went on 'vacation', too."

Slam stood, picked up the capsule carefully, sliding the pictures into one of his pockets. "We're taking these, but Morgan says that you're back in and they better see you at the next meeting."

"Yeah, yeah," Brian's relief was palpable. He looked at Slam as though he'd just promised him back into heaven.

Pushing Chloe in front of him, Slam walked out, closed the door behind him. Out in the street, he took off his coat, handed Chloe the pictures and wrapped the capsule carefully in it, put the bundle carefully onto the backseat floor.

"What are you going to do with it?" She asked.

Without his coat, there wasn't anything covering the holster on his side, a heavy gun, a cop gun. He looked comfortable with it, and she realized he must have put it on before he went to see the union people. It hit her again, what a dangerous game she was playing at, in foreign waters. Now, he looked her straight in the eye, made her forget it because he was making her decide again.

"What do you think we should do with it?"

Chloe wanted to know how she'd become so jaded that she wasn't even surprised that, like almost every story she wrote about Lex, this one had led to her carrying nuclear materials in a dilapidated Chevy with a man who used to be a cop.

"We need to get it to a lab, find someone who could tell us what it is," she said. "I don't know anyone like that in Gotham."

"Get in," Slam said, opening his door and leaning over to unlock hers. "I know a couple people who could help us out, but we'd have to go through... different channels."

"You mean superheroes," Chloe said. Clark's AI might be one of the most weird things that she'd ever heard of, but it could do research faster than anything she'd ever seen.

"Yeah. It might not be a lab that you can use in print," he said.

Chloe closed her eyes, rubbed them. Because, for all the research the AI could do, she always had to go and make tracks herself, so it didn't look like she'd pulled the numbers or facts from air. "No," she said. "We need a real lab. Can't give it to the cops, because I don't know anyone in the department."

She waited. Slam didn't answer, if he knew any ins with the Gotham crime lab, he wasn't sharing. Slam didn't start the car, they sat in silence and watched the shadows move slightly as the sun set.

"Bruce Wayne," Chloe said, slowly. The pieces were still coming together, but she'd never been above using a friend, and Bruce definitely wasn't a friend, but his enemy was her enemy. "Bruce must have labs that aren't really associated with Wayne Enterprises? Something he outsources?"

Shrugging, Slam said, "Do you have his number?"

Automatically, Chloe rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right next to Rosie O'Donnell's. I could try calling his company."

Because she did have some contact information, the secretary that had made the appointment, who turned out to work for the PR rep, but could transfer her to Bruce's direct secretary when she made it clear that _no_, she couldn't talk with the press rep. Only Bruce's direct secretary said that he was in a meeting and could she take a message and that led to _no_, she wouldn't leave a message, and a half an hour of hold, while Slam drove them aimlessly into a better section of Gotham, towards Wayne Tower.

Finally, there was a pause and she heard someone click on the speakerphone, the voices muted in the distance. An office, then. "Yes?" Bruce asked. "Miss Sullivan?"

"Mr. Wayne," Chloe said, automatically polite. "I have some material I need analyzed, and I was wondering if you could have one of your labs analyze it."

If Lex had Camdus, she was willing to bet that he wasn't the only businessman who thought it was a good idea to keep scientists on hand.

"I'm sorry, Miss Sullivan, I don't understand." There was a soft click again, and Bruce's voice suddenly came that much closer, he must have turned off the speakerphone. "What do you want from me? I was told that there was some follow up questions."

"I can get Lex Luthor out of your city if you help me with this," Chloe said. "He's using the Waterfront property to make something bad, but unless I can get the material analyzed by a _reputable_ lab, I can't publish anything other than rumors and grainy photos."

She was exaggerating, but she thought it got her point across: Help me help you.

"What is it?" Bruce asked, slowly. "What do you think it is?"

"Something nuclear or Kryptonite," Chloe said. "Or something else just as bad. He wouldn't be making it here if he thought he could get away with it in Metropolis."

The Bruce she heard breathing into the phone wasn't the polished Bruce of press conferences, but the man in Washington, who risked public humiliation to try and save his city. The man who cared about it, more than he appeared to care about anything else.

"You need it analyzed?" Bruce asked.

"By a reputable lab," Chloe said.

"Alright," Bruce said. "I have a lab that does outsource work for other Gotham companies. Let me give you the address. I'll call my scientists and let them know you're coming."

Copying down the address onto her notepad, Chloe said, "Thanks."

"This is not a _favor_," Bruce said. "I'll be charging The Daily Planet for the cost."

"Good," she said. It made everything more above ground to have a professional lab looking at it, with a charge to the _Planet_ as evidence that it _wasn't_ her selling her journalistic integrity for the bigger prize of Lex Luthor.

Bruce hung up without a goodbye and she gave the directions to Slam, closed her eyes when he started driving. It was almost over, she almost had enough to take him down. Two Lex articles in one week, and with this one, there wasn't even the chance that she'd get scooped.

As soon as Slam pulled up to the entrance of the lab, a flat, low building in the middle of Gotham's factory district, scientists came out, wearing biohazard suits. They took the material carefully from Slam, walked back inside slowly. Bruce Wayne had warned them well, then.

One of the scientists came out afterwards, clipboard and pen clicking as he walked. Slam glanced up and down, once, clearly dismissing him. Even if she wasn't learning to speak Slam's language of motion rather than speech, she was familiar enough with the motion for dis_missed_.

"I'm Doctor Cain, I'm in charge of Magnus Labs. Mr. Wayne said that you need this as soon as possible, for a Daily Planet article?" he asked. He had the tight edge of intelligence when faced with utter stupidity, as though her taking time away from his usual work was the worst tragedy of his week.

"Yes," Chloe said. She handed him her card, watched him clip it to the clipboard. "Call me as soon as it's done."

"Of course," he said, irritatingly superior. "I'll get to work right now."

He turned, without a goodbye, walked back into the building.

Slam was still leaning against the side of his car. When Chloe turned around, he was pulling a cigarette, offered her one. She took it; it was something to do with her hands.

"We could go home, you could start writing," Slam offered.

"No," Chloe said. She tapped her bag. "I've got my laptop here. Let's go to an Internet café. I should probably call Perry."

"Probably," Slam said, dryly. "I know somewhere in a better neighborhood than your last one."

Nodding, Chloe gave him the point. "Fine, yes, ok, so that was a bad choice."

Slam started the car when she was in and drove back towards the financial district. Flipping her phone open, Chloe dialed her third speed dial number.

"What?" Perry barked into the phone. Chloe checked her watch. Five o'clock. The first wave of stories would be getting in, hitting the copy editors and Perry.

"Hey, Perry, it's Chloe," she said in a rush. "How are you?"

"Kent says you've got another Luthor story?" Perry must have had his door open, the familiar noise of the newsroom was loud in the background.

"Yeah," she said. "He's making some sort of missiles here. Probably to be used against Superman."

Perry made a low humming noise. "Yeah. Ok. Don't get in trouble. Tell Slam not to let you get in trouble. And Superman? Why is it that you and Lane always think everything's about him?"

"Because we're madly, passionately, in love with him?" she asked, rolling her eyes upward.

"Get out'a here, Sullivan. Get me the draft before tomorrow's deadline," Perry hung up, already yelling for someone to come and fix this goddamned tense already.

Slam parked, and opened his door. "How is Perry?"

"On deadline," she said. "In his element. This place has wireless?"

"The sign says so." Slam got out of the car, grabbing a suit jacket from the backseat, and waited until she was out, too, to walk to the door. She wasn't sure if he was holding it open out of courtesy or because he wanted to make sure she didn't get into trouble on her way into the place.

Probably the latter, given the last few days.

"Thanks," she said.

They set up at a table near the back, far away from the door, but right next to the emergency exit. Sipping her latte, she checked her e-mail. Office stuff, office stuff, five people about her article, one from a reporter at the _NY Times_, wondering where she'd gotten her sources.

And then the 600k message from Lexisdabomb@ilovelex.com, owner of the Lex Luthor fanpage.

_Hi! These are the only ones I could find from around that time (and in all of them he's with these two skanky ho bags), they're all scanned copies (no digital cameras! *shock and awe*) but they're pretty good. OMG. Let me see whatever you do, ok?_

Hugs and kisses,  
Lexisdabomb

Chloe downloaded the pictures and opened them. The first was Selina, looking younger, wearing thick, heavy, shiny makeup. Lex looked like he was about to pass out, and she was perched on his lap lightly.

The second was him wearing something different, a different shirt, leather pants. He had his arm around a different girl's shoulders, someone younger even than Selina. She was pale white, had that look of heroin chic, and Chloe was willing to bet it was a look that came from real heroin use.

Her red hair hung long around her face and she was looking straight into the camera. Chloe choked on her latte; she recognized those eyes. "Oh, my god, it's Sister Magdalene."

Slam looked up from his paper, "Sister Maggie? Where?"

"With Lex," Chloe stopped. Pieces clicked, ten years ago, before Sister Magdalene had joined the convent, there'd been a donation. And now, again, when Sister Magdalene needed help, Bruce came running and if he'd known Selina then and he knew her now, it couldn't be _chance_.

"Sister Magdalene is Selina's sister Maggie. Who used to be a hooker," she said. "And they used to hang out with Lex Luthor."

The café was busy, buzzing with life, conversations, people reading, background music. Noise was familiar, the newsroom was never quiet. With noise, Chloe could think.

Before it was a factory it was a clinic, somewhere Sister Magdalene used to heal druggies and hookers, people she'd been. And before it was a factory, it was a club. Clubs in bad neighborhoods were the m.o. of Lex's publicly forgotten years, the years when hookers probably would have been the best company he hung out with.

Chloe leaned back, drank her latte, ran a finger along the edge of the table. "They all want it, because ten years ago, Lex Luthor was using Maggie Kyle there and something stopped it that made Selina go to Bruce so that Maggie could get help and made Lex leave Gotham alone until now."

Over the edge of his newspaper, Slam was watching her, and she didn't even try to read his expression.

"The girl at Doctor Thompkins' office, Susan, said that Lex had taken Maggie away and Selina had stolen her back." Watching him, she asked, "What do you think?"

"What could a hooker have done to get Luthor to stay away from Gotham? To frighten him?" Slam shrugged. "It was probably just that he didn't want to tangle with Bruce Wayne."

Shaking her head, Chloe said, "No, he could have crushed Bruce Wayne earlier, before Bruce expanded the empire. I always wondered why he didn't."

Scratching at his chin, Slam asked, "I thought you said it didn't matter what happened then?"

"_You_ said it didn't matter," Chloe said. "It's just now I want to know, why would a street hooker hang around with Lex Luthor when she had Bruce Wayne on a string? What did she do that kept Lex out of Gotham? Why did he come back now? It's just more questions."

"You going to write your story?" Slam was looking at her again like he had earlier. "Selina and Maggie will still only be hurt by whatever you publish about them. You think that turning a story about something bad that's happening into one about gossip will make this easier on anyone? It might sell more papers, but it won't be what's important."

Looking at the keyboard, Chloe glared at the keys. He was right, but it hurt not having all the answers, and knowing that she couldn't unless someone broke and told her something that was buried deep. It was the years that Clark hadn't told her his secret all over again.

Her notebook was opened to her first page of notes and so she started Word and began typing. Two hours later and the story was still flowing, quotes falling into place, facts she'd have to look up bolded to make it easier on herself later. She was cruising.

Writing was always a subset of following a story for her, she wrote in the back of her head when she interviewed, when she researched, so that nearly complete paragraphs fell onto the page in the right places, at the right times. The puzzle pieces that hadn't made sense in her head, made sense on paper as she put together a story of greed and anger, of hiding weapons, of using people, of a city so desperate that it took the business of a bad man because it didn't expect any better.

There was a soft ringing from an inner pocket in Slam's jacket. He flipped open the phone. "Bradley. Yeah... When?... Ok, Hollie, I'll be right there. Calm down."

"We're going," he said.

Chloe came out of her story like it was a long sleep. "What?"

"C'mon," he said. "We have to go. There's been an explosion at the factory."

Before he'd even finished the word, she was packing up, turning off her computer, shoving it into her bag and walking out ahead of him to the car. "Was anyone in the building?" she asked.

Sirens were already sounding, she cocked her head, noticed that Slam did, too. The wail was recognizable as the fire department.

"I don't know," he said, but the expression on his face was strangely open, his movements were hasty: He looked worried.

He drove faster than she'd seen him drive before, taking corners quickly, and she recognized where they were headed, East End. She opened her window and smelled, overpoweringly, the scent of smoke. It was almost invisible in the darkness, but smoke rose out of a building a few blocks away and Slam pressed hard on the gas pedal until they were only a block away, red sirens and dark smoke making it hard to see.

In a nearby alleyway, he parked, barely waiting for the engine to stop before he opened the door, was outside.

"Slam," someone coughed violently. Out of the alleyway's darkness, Catwoman moved, like a shadow come to life. She coughed again, covering her mouth.

"Se- Catwoman," Slam said. "What did you do?"

"Something incredibly stupid," she said.

Slam snorted. "Yeah, I got that one. Where's Hollie?"

"Up on the roof," Catwoman said, voice hoarse. She stretched up, her arms grabbing to a fire escape. Even exhausted, and suffering from what sounded like smoke inhalation, she was graceful, nearly dancing as she walked. "Hurry up, I want to admire my work some more."

Although his sigh was long suffering, Chloe could tell he was relieved to see her, his shoulders lowered, face back to its neutral mask. "C'mon, kid."

Catwoman was already halfway up, not waiting for them, although, she watched them when she'd reached the roof. By the time Chloe was at the top, she was panting, because cardio was one thing, but she avoided the rock climbing at the gym for a reason.

On the roof, someone was already standing at the far edge, in the direction that the smoke was coming from. Chloe followed Catwoman, who darted back to the ledge to sit with her legs hanging over the edge. The flat factory was still bubbling smoke, yellow fireman uniforms coming in and out of the building. Water was already being sprayed, the hoses manned from every engine, hydrants at full blast.

She stared down, almost uncomprehendingly, except that she knew what it was, her story ending with a bang, a shot of flames and explosions she could put in her lead. Slam blocked her view of everything to her left except for the bounce of Catwoman's legs.

Chloe's cell phone rang, and she answered it automatically, nearly toneless. "Sullivan."

"Miss Sullivan, this is Dr. Cain from Magnus Labs. I'm faxing the report to your office, but I thought you might want to know that it will take considerably longer than we first thought to analyze the material. But," he paused for emphasis. "From what we can tell, it's a variant of the element found in the meteor rocks, Kryponite. It appears to be distilled and liquefied to increase the amount of molecules found in the space."

"Distilled Kryptonite?" Chloe said, angrily. Lex needed to pay for this, because there was only one person on earth who those would be effective against. To everyone else it was probably a fast way to mutate whoever got hit. She couldn't forget Smallville that easily. "Thanks, Dr. Cain."

"Of course," he said, hanging up.

Looking back at the burning building, she was acutely grateful for Catwoman.

"Beautiful," Catwoman said. There was a low rapture in her voice and if the word wasn't familiar the tone was and something else clicked into place.

The familiar dark, curling hair, the eyes, but mostly, the _voice_, "Selina Kyle," Chloe said.

Catwoman stiffened, and Slam put a hand on Chloe's shoulder, squeezed tightly. She'd seen him do that to one other person since she'd known him and it was a threat then. It was a threat now.

"Eh, she won't tell. Will you Chloe?" The girl finally spoke, no longer blocked by Slam's solid shape.

Frowning, Chloe dug, trying to remember. "Susan?" she asked.

"Hollie," the girl corrected. "I was undercover," she whispered as though she was admitting she liked Ashlee Simpson.

"Will you?" Slam asked, hand still tight. The lines were thick around his mouth, frown lines.

"Let her go, Slam," Susan/Hollie said. "She's not interested in this, are you, Chloe?"

And even though it was nice, said friendly, there was an anger underneath the words, a glint of fury and danger that Chloe had only seen before in gang members about to fight. Whenever he was about to fight, Superman just looked resigned.

"Of course I wouldn't tell anyone," Chloe said, slowly. "This isn't the sort of thing that you publish..."

"Let her go." The voice was firm, commanding, deep, and uncompromising. "Let her go _now_."

Chloe turned and it was the red and blue, yellow 'S', she'd been expecting all weekend. Automatically, she took two steps towards him, felt Slam's hand fall off of her shoulder.

For half a second, Superman looked at her, his eyes softened and even if she was the only one who knew it, he was Clark.

"Superman." They all turned to stare at the newcomer and it was a little bit like a Katharine Hepburn comedy where everyone arrived at the same time, or that scene in _Rocky Horror_.

Chloe had never really thought that she'd ever get to meet Batman, because she was Metropolis, he was Gotham, so she'd always kind of pictured him as a grown man in a ski mask with a cape. He wasn't. Batman's cape flowed over his shoulders, he was wearing what wouldn't have been out of place at a Halloween store, but ten times more frightening than anything made of plastic could have ever been.

She understood why people feared him. He was a living, breathing incarnation of darkness.

"Batman," Superman said. He was glaring. "Why didn't you do anything about the factory?"

The pause was lengthy, and unlike Catwoman's revealing costume, Batman's eyes were invisible behind lenses that reflected black at them, obsidian darkness making him look soulless, the way someone who wanted to rescue Gotham would have to be.

"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't," Batman said, finally. The words _the way that you did_ were implied. His voice was dark, thunderous nights. It was the growl of a feral dog.

"I didn't," Superman was calm, collected; he was above human emotions because he wasn't human.

The only thing that changed about Batman was the corner of his lip moving slightly down. The rest of them were quiet.

"Oh, he's right," Catwoman said. "That was me."

They all turned to look at her except for Superman, who still stared at Batman with fury. Batman's whole mouth drew down. "You exploded a building filled with unknown contaminants in a city. Near the water." His words were flat, without inflection.

"Oh, you mean the contaminants that we moved to a separate storage facility? Really, that would have been dumb to explode nuclear waste all over the city," she said. "We moved everything. Including the missiles."

"Not nuclear, " Chloe said, suddenly. "Distilled kryptonite."

Superman might not rage the way that humans did, but his jaw tightened, his fists clenched just the same. Chloe wondered what he would say when they got home, what he would do as Clark Kent, hurt yet again by Lex Luthor.

Batman nodded at her.

Stretching, arching her back so that her breasts were exactly where Chloe's couldn't ever be without a really good plastic surgeon, Catwoman said, "We can talk disposal later. I don't want that stuff sitting around my neighborhood."

"We should talk, Batman," Superman said. He looked serious, his addressing-the-people-of-the-world look. It was his look of peace. Chloe had yet to see his look of war, but didn't really doubt she would some day if Lex continued to build weapons to try to hurt Superman.

Batman walked away, to the edge farthest from the rest of them, didn't even glance over his shoulder to make sure that Superman was following him. She'd have to press Clark for details later.

Instead, she asked, "Why did Lex stay away from Gotham for so long?"

Arching an eyebrow, Catwoman said, "Curious little kitten, you know what happened to the cat."

"Yeah," Chloe said. "It's just gossip if the world knows what happened, it's bribery if I do. What'd you do to Lex?"

Down at the warehouse, the fire was still burning, Catwoman stared at it. "I told him that I would slit his throat if he came back," she said. "He had my sister. I probably should have killed him then - a mercy killing."

Still, there was something blank in her face. "I'm off," she said, suddenly. "Tell him that we'll get together, have tea and crumpets, discuss getting rid of it all."

With a running jump a crack of - was that a _whip?_ \- Catwoman was off, disappeared, gone.

"She doesn't kill people," Hollie said, firmly. "That's why she didn't do it. But, I think that she might have killed for her sister. Family first, with her. I should go. Talk to you later, Slam."

Hollie's exit was much less dramatic, walking to the roof door, letting it slam behind her.

"Just you and me, kid," Slam said.

Chloe nodded, looked over to where Batman and Superman were still talking. Briefly, she wished she'd brought her laptop so she could keep working, but then the firefighters caught her eyes again and she shook her head.

"We should go," she said, eventually, pulling herself away from the edge.

"You aren't going back to Metropolis tonight?" Slam asked, but he was already heading for the door. Chloe glanced at Superman once more before following Slam down the stairs.

*****

Chloe came back from Gotham on the midnight flight, one of thirty exhausted people who got off the commuter plane. She was the only one with luggage, and the only one who had someone waiting for her.

When she jumped into his arms, the scene from the movie where the music crescendos and everything fades to black, he hugged her tight, wrapped his arms around her and held her, feet above the ground until they were both breathing normally again, not the shocky half-breaths of I-missed-you-so-much.

He got her luggage, a worn duffel bag that had been with her in any overseas story she'd ever done. She carried her messenger bag and held his hand walking to the car. It felt like quiet time, time that they had to themselves.

The next day, she had to run the Copy Editor gauntlet and get it put through for the final ok by Perry. All of the other news stations had reported the fire as a "factory explosion" without linking it to Luthor and Chloe felt a low burn of satisfaction in her gut.

When her story came out, she sat at her desk, heels up, re-reading it and ignoring the phone calls. She got two packages that weren't bombs: a box of lingerie from Dessous, and a potted rose bush. The note that came with the lingerie read, _Good work. --Selina_.

The color of the Gotham Hope rosebush was a fine pink that flowed into a deep red, even in the crappy florescent lighting.

Luthor's press representatives insisted that the story was mostly fabrication of a reporter with a grudge. Their song and dance was aired on national television, until a missile was found in an underground storage room, the only thing not touched by the fire. Slowly, with coaxing that Chloe knew was coming from the unions, people who had worked at the factory came forward.

It was something that Chloe wouldn't have exactly _admitted_ to helping orchestrate.

At home, she put the rosebush on their kitchen table, for lack of anywhere else to put it, the lingerie was a quick change with her cotton panties and regular bra before Clark got home. She opened the box of pizza, and took out a small piece, while she waited for Clark to come home from being Superman.

*****

end


End file.
